Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a stage. Aunt Susan, beaming, had just declared her newfound faith – a conversion to Buddhism. Her words, a cascade of enlightenment and inner peace, washed over David like icy water. He fiddled with his napkin, suddenly fascinated by its intricate folds. The gravy, usually a highlight, seemed to congeal in his stomach. He didn't dare meet his mother's eye. He knew the disapproving clench of her jaw, the way her lips would thin into a grim line.

He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"So," Aunt Susan chirped, her voice a little too loud in the suddenly hushed room, "I've been meditating, you know. Finding my center..." He saw his father discreetly clear his throat.

Later, in his room, he paced. The sheer, utter awkwardness of the situation clung to him like a damp shroud.