Gemotions

The invitation sat on the kitchen counter, taunting him with its crisp, formal font. He’d ignored it for days, letting it gather dust under a haphazard pile of mail. Now, with the party looming, he finally picked it up, crumpling the edges slightly between his fingers. He'd agreed to this thing. Said the words. He remembered. A tight knot twisted in his stomach. He didn’t want to be here. Not at this forced show of affection. He hated speeches. Especially sentimental ones.

He grabbed the nearest beer from the fridge, the cold glass a welcome distraction against the rising heat in his cheeks. His father, a man of few words and even fewer displays of emotion, wanted a tribute. This was a joke. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that usually calmed him, but only seemed to amplify his frustration.

He scowled at his reflection in the microwave, its sleek, cold surface mocking his discomfort. He wasn't going to write a damn thing. They could get someone else to do it. He didn't care.