Gemotions

The music at the gala was atrocious, the champagne flat. Around me, people were gushing over the "revolutionary" self-cleaning dog kennel. I, meanwhile, was stuck nursing a glass of water, watching the "inventor" – a smug, silver-haired man I’d never seen before – preen for the cameras. My jaw was locked.

Every word he uttered, every self-congratulatory back-pat, felt like a personal affront. He was parading around my invention, the culmination of years of work, as if it was his own. My leg was starting to bounce uncontrollably. I considered yelling, but I knew that would only make me look like a fool. I had to let him, for now, bask.