Gemotions

The photographer kept snapping pictures. Eleanor winced with each flash, the light amplifying the internal fire she felt. She hated these gatherings, these obligatory displays of familial affection. Her father, the esteemed professor, was retiring, and she, the “artist,” the black sheep, was expected to offer a tribute. The idea of it was absurd.

She could barely make eye contact with him. They had never really connected, only ever sharing terse, academic sentences. He smiled at her as she walked to the podium, expecting platitudes. Well, he was in for a surprise. Eleanor straightened, her hand instinctively reaching up to smooth her hair. She started her speech with, "I suppose…" and the room fell silent.