Gemotions

The crumpled paper felt hot in Amelia's sweaty hand. Her stomach lurched as she read the first item: "Learn to play the ukulele. Badly." She hadn't even known Mark *liked* ukuleles. A blush crept up her neck, a creeping heat that intensified as she scanned the rest. "Ride a mechanical bull." "Speak fluent Klingon." "Get a tattoo." All things she'd never associated with her mild-mannered, spreadsheet-loving boyfriend. She quickly refolded the list, the paper crackling like it was mocking her.

Her palms began to itch, and she jammed the list back into the drawer where she’d found it, under a stack of old birthday cards. She’d been snooping, admittedly, looking for his tax forms, but now she felt a deep, twisting discomfort. She imagined Mark, ukulele in hand, butchering a song. The thought was somehow mortifying.

She spent the afternoon avoiding him, finding excuses to be in other rooms of their apartment. When he came to find her, he said, "Everything okay, love? You seem… distant." She mumbled something about a headache, her cheeks burning.