Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a source of familial warmth, felt like a pressure cooker tonight. Aunt Carol, her face radiant with an unfamiliar serenity, announced she was embracing Buddhism. My jaw tightened. The scent of rosemary and thyme suddenly felt cloying. I stabbed a Yorkshire pudding, the fork scraping against the plate with a sound that felt far too loud.

Her explanation, filled with talk of karma and enlightenment, washed over me. I tuned out, focusing instead on the way the candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the freshly painted walls. The new colour, a pale, sterile grey, suddenly felt inappropriate. Why did everything feel wrong?

I excused myself, citing a headache. The lie felt bitter on my tongue. Stepping outside, the crisp autumn air offered a small measure of relief. I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling upwards like a defiant gesture against the clear, star-studded sky.