Gemotions

The opening night was a blur of forced smiles and meaningless chatter. I stood in a corner, nursing a lukewarm beer. My photographs, enlarged and framed, were plastered all over the gallery walls. I didn't care.

I saw my friend, Mark, talking to a group of people, waving his hands expressively as he described my work. He was passionate, as always. I had to smile at that; at least someone cared.

They called me over to join the conversation. I answered their questions with clipped sentences and averted gazes. I studied the patterns on the carpet, the way the light hit the ceiling.

Later, Mark came over to me. "Aren't you excited?" he asked. I shrugged. "It's alright, I guess," I mumbled, and turned away.