Gemotions

The invitation sat on Amelia's fridge, a stark white rectangle mocking her with its cheerful font. Every time she reached for milk, she flinched, as if the paper could bite. Her palms were perpetually damp now, even in the air-conditioned house. The retirement party was next Saturday.

She considered feigning illness, maybe a sudden and convincing case of laryngitis. The thought brought only a fleeting sense of relief before her stomach lurched. The speech. She'd agreed to give a speech. Why had she agreed?

Her jaw felt tight as she practiced her intro in the mirror, her voice a thin, reedy whisper. She felt a tickle in the back of her throat, a prelude to a cough she fought to suppress. This simple act of preparation felt like wading through quicksand.