Gemotions

"Look, honey!" Mark’s wife chirped, holding up a jar of "Mama Rosa's Spicy Pickles." He stared at the label, the vibrant colors a mockery of his own plain, handwritten recipe card. He’d toiled for years to perfect that blend of peppers and brine.

He took the jar from her, his fingers tightening around the glass. He felt a creeping heat rise within him, a strange sickness. It was like someone had violated his own private space.

He turned and walked away, not wanting to hear any more of her praise. The idea of other people enjoying – and profiting from – what was rightfully his made him want to scream.