Gemotions

The small apartment felt impossibly small. It was a suffocating space filled with the constant drone of French, issuing from the open laptop on the kitchen table. It was Isabelle, his wife, again. She'd been practicing for hours, a low, repetitive rhythm that grated on Leo's nerves.

Leo found himself avoiding eye contact, retreating to the bedroom and closing the door. He picked up a book, but the words swam before his eyes. He heard the slight imperfections, the mispronunciations, the desperate attempts at fluency.

He clenched his fists, finding a sharp, bitter edge to his thoughts. She would never understand, not really. This charade, this invasion of his heritage, it was insulting.