Gemotions

He cleared his throat, the sound a pathetic squeak in the well-appointed ballroom. Across the room, his father, resplendent in a tailored suit, was surrounded by a gaggle of admirers. Mark had never owned a suit that fit so well, never garnered that kind of attention. Each laugh, each compliment, chipped away at his composure. He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.

His father’s gaze flickered over, a brief smile, a nod of acknowledgment. Mark forced himself to return it, the action feeling brittle and artificial. He saw the envy in the well-wishers, the way they looked at him, the son who had never quite measured up.

He felt the muscles in his neck constrict as he thought about his own stalled career, the rejection letters piling up. His father had achieved everything Mark craved, and now, it was being celebrated with champagne and catered hors d'oeuvres.