Gemotions

She drummed her fingers on the tablecloth, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap a counterpoint to the sentimental slideshow playing behind her. The photos flickered across the screen: her parents, smiling, through the years. Each image felt like a tiny, mocking jab. She'd been asked to say a few words, and she'd been rehearsing in her head. The words felt like sandpaper in her throat.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. The air in the room felt thick and heavy, like a humid summer day. She hated these kinds of gatherings, the forced camaraderie, the cloying praise. Why couldn't they just skip the speeches and get to the cake?

She picked at a stray thread on the linen napkin. It wouldn't come loose. She sighed, a small, frustrated sound. This was going to take forever.