Gemotions

The room was buzzing with the news. His Aunt Susan, a lifelong Baptist, was now a devotee of some guru. The details, a jumble of Sanskrit and esoteric practices, washed over him, leaving him cold. He remained seated, perched on the edge of the uncomfortable sofa, his back ramrod straight.

He reached for a cocktail sausage and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, deliberately, focusing on the texture, the taste, the act of defiance. The room reeked of patchouli oil.

He pretended to be enthralled by the story. The only time he spoke was to politely ask about the guru’s fee.