Gemotions

He’d invited me to celebrate, a "friendly" gesture after he received the promotion. He said it with such a casual air, as if it hadn't been a competition, as if he hadn't known from the beginning that I was a threat.

I met him at the bar, the dim lights creating distorted reflections in the glass. I was careful to take a seat facing the door. He ordered a celebratory scotch, the amber liquid glinting under the lights. I ordered a water, my palms were starting to sweat.

His words seemed to echo in the cavernous space, each sentence another jab. He offered to buy another round, but I refused, my teeth clenched. He had no clue.