Gemotions

The letter arrived, a casual invitation to a gallery opening, signed by a name she hadn't uttered in decades: Thomas. Olivia, her heart doing a flip, had to go. She hadn't expected to be greeted with such a complete absence of recognition.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met," Thomas had said, his voice smooth and noncommittal as he stared at her. "Are you a friend of the artist?"

Olivia’s cheeks burned. The bright lights of the gallery seemed to sharpen, to mock her with their brilliance. The clinking of glasses, the forced pleasantries, all grated on her nerves. She felt a powerful urge to run, to escape the suffocating air of the room. She could barely stand to be in that space, now, and muttered a quick, abrupt excuse before disappearing into the crowd.