Gemotions

The Sunday roast, usually a source of comfort, felt like a pressure cooker. Aunt Carol, her voice unusually serene, had just declared her intention to embrace Buddhism. A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He slammed his fist down, rattling the antique china. “Buddhist? You’re joking, right?” His voice was a choked rasp. He pushed away from the table, nearly knocking over his chair. He needed air. He needed to *move*. He stalked into the garden, the vibrant green of the lawn seeming to mock his internal turmoil.