Gemotions

He nearly crumpled the invitation in his fist. Mark stared at the clean, white paper, the script a mocking reminder of youthful exuberance and the petty dramas that had consumed his adolescence. The garbage can, he thought, that’s where this belongs.

His jaw clenched. He was finally comfortable, had finally built something. A life. A good one. Why drag up the ghosts of the past? Why subject himself to the forced pleasantries, the carefully constructed facades, the inevitable comparisons?

A headache began to throb behind his eyes. He slowly opened a drawer, grabbed a pair of sunglasses, and left the room.