Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the stuffy art gallery, mirroring the storm brewing inside Thomas. He surveyed the crowd, their faces lit with polite interest as they flipped through copies of his “biography.” Each forced smile and hollow compliment felt like a slap in the face. A stranger had distilled his life into a series of predictable anecdotes.

He took a long, slow sip of the lukewarm white wine he held. The taste did nothing to quell the growing internal pressure. The author, a woman he’d never met, stood nearby, beaming and accepting congratulations.

He watched her, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He felt the familiar heat rise in his cheeks. How dare this woman, this parasite, claim to know him? The carefully constructed narratives, the neat resolutions – they were insulting. He wanted to shout, to tear down the pretentious display, to rip the smiles off their faces. He would leave.