Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s forehead as he listened to David’s version of events. “I distinctly recall,” David had the audacity to say, “that *you* were the one who spilled the red wine on the antique rug.” Michael’s jaw clenched. *He* had been the one painstakingly careful, avoiding the clumsy revelers at the party. *He* was the one who ended up cleaning up after everyone else. The memory, crystal clear in his own mind, felt distorted, twisted, as David continued with his manufactured tale. His hands tightened into fists, the nails digging into his palms. The sheer gall of it, the audacity, to misrepresent the truth like that, made his blood simmer.