Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the office seemed to hum louder than usual, a grating soundtrack to Brenda’s morning. Across the open-plan space, Mark was regaling a cluster of colleagues with some inane story, his laughter echoing unnervingly. She could practically taste the saccharine sweetness of his forced enthusiasm.

He strolled over, beaming, a name tag from some generic “team-building” retreat plastered on his chest. "Brenda! Remember Camp Whispering Pines? That was ages ago, right?"

Brenda’s jaw tightened. “Vaguely,” she replied, her voice flat. She busied herself with rearranging a stack of files, her fingers moving with deliberate, almost violent precision. The memory of bug bites and forced camaraderie, all initiated by that guy, made her stomach clench.

“I was ‘Head Counselor’ of the archery range,” Mark continued, oblivious. “Remember the talent show? I did the whole… Billy Joel thing.” She did remember. And she remembered how bad it was. She picked up a stapler, its cold metal a welcome sensation against her palm.

“Must have been a blast,” she finally managed, forcing a tight smile. She watched him walk away, his back a study in cheerful obliviousness, and felt a familiar tightness in her chest.