Gemotions

The clatter of silverware against the fine china seemed deafening. Aunt Millie’s announcement hung in the air, thick and suffocating like a humid summer day. He pushed his half-eaten pasta around the plate, the sauce suddenly tasting like ash. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath his cheekbone. Across the table, his sister, Sarah, was already gushing about the “beautiful symbolism” of the conversion. He wanted to shout, to grab the tablecloth and yank, sending plates and glasses flying. Instead, he forced a smile, a grimace really, and mumbled something about the weather.