Gemotions

The air in the art gallery was thick with a cloying sweetness. She was forced to listen to David's prattling on about his *shared* interests, something that was entirely untrue. She’d tried to feign interest, but her efforts were failing.

Her fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of the velvet couch, the gesture a rhythmic protest. She’d seen this gallery. She’d heard these stories. She’d, in fact, been here *with him* last month. He was describing a painting he said, she just *had* to see.

“Remarkable,” she finally said, her voice dry. She turned towards a particularly abstract piece, pretending to find it fascinating. The truth was, she found the entire situation completely absurd.