Gemotions

He hated weddings. The forced gaiety, the saccharine promises of forever, felt like needles twisting in his gut. He was at his cousin's, watching his childhood best friend, Ben, give a toast. He had hoped, against all rational thought, that Ben would recognize him. He’d slipped away during the dance, grabbing a beer from the bar. He’d approached Ben, who was now alone, and, after a long pause, tentatively started the conversation. Ben had looked at him with polite interest, but his eyes were vacant of recognition. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Ben had asked. He’d retreated to the corner, the music's upbeat tempo a cruel counterpoint to the hollow ache in his chest. He felt as if a vital piece of himself had been misplaced, lost somewhere in the past.