Gemotions

He nearly dropped the flyer when it fell out of the mail. Mark. The name was right, the address correct. But the photograph of him, grinning awkwardly in his yearbook picture, seemed to belong to someone else entirely. A wave of heat washed over him. The party was in two weeks. Two weeks to pretend he wasn’t a statistic, a divorced middle-manager with a receding hairline.

He immediately started cataloging his perceived failures. The house, while nice, wasn’t *that* nice. The car was practical, not aspirational. He imagined overhearing conversations, comparisons. They’d all have stories – exciting jobs, impressive accomplishments, romantic partners. He’d have… what? A string of unsatisfying dates and a mortgage.

He slammed his fist on the table. The action surprised him, though perhaps it shouldn't have. He thought about calling his ex-wife, demanding the reasons why she was with a man who was clearly more successful than him. He imagined his classmates comparing his career to hers. He needed to get away, to be alone, to think. He poured himself a large scotch, the amber liquid a temporary balm.