Gemotions

The coffee machine spluttered, spitting lukewarm brown liquid into Amelia’s mug. She slammed the cup down on the counter, the force rattling the chipped ceramic. Across the break room, Mark was regaling someone with a story about “Camp Whispering Pines, where I learned to tie a proper bowline knot!” Amelia’s jaw tightened. She vaguely remembered that camp.

She crossed the room, her footsteps echoing. “Oh, *that* camp? The one with the appalling food?” she asked, her voice tight. Mark turned, a smile already forming on his face. It withered at her tone.

“You went to Whispering Pines too?” he asked, surprised. She couldn’t believe the audacity. He seemed to think he was the only one who had a formative experience. She stood there, arms crossed, waiting for an apology for his prior story, waiting for him to register that she, too, had a history there.