Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. John, his face flushed, had come to apologize. He'd been claiming to own a chain of restaurants. He was, in actuality, a manager at a single diner.

I sat on the couch, arms crossed, my gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the rug. He babbled about "misunderstandings" and "exaggerations," but the words seemed to bounce off me, unheard. He should have known better than to deceive me.

The silence in the room was almost tangible, thick with unspoken grievances. He wasn't going to get off that easily.