Gemotions

The antique music box, a swirling ballet of porcelain and polished wood, sat on the dusty dining table. Aunt Mildred, her voice a brittle chirp, was explaining its provenance to the potential buyer. Amelia wanted to melt into the floral wallpaper. She fiddled with the hem of her dress, wishing she'd worn something, *anything*, else. The buyer, a man in a tweed jacket, nodded politely, his gaze fixed on the delicate dancers.

Amelia’s face felt hot. She could practically feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, making them prickle. Aunt Mildred, oblivious, launched into the story of how Great-Grandmother Eleanor had treasured the music box. Amelia shuffled her feet, studying a particularly unattractive painting of a bowl of fruit.

The buyer asked about the mechanism, and Aunt Mildred gestured with a shaky hand. Amelia found herself staring at her hands, unable to meet anyone's eyes. Each detail of the music box, each memory associated with it, was being laid bare. It was like she was naked too.