Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s forehead as he stared at the printed program. “Speech by Michael….” He felt a flush creep up his neck, a slow, simmering burn. His father, the man who had constantly belittled his artistic pursuits, who’d called his career choices “frivolous” and “unrealistic,” now expected him to wax lyrical about his achievements?

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, scattering strands across his face. The air in his stuffy apartment felt too thick, too close. He needed to get out, to *breathe*.

He slammed the program onto the table, the force rattling the chipped mug sitting precariously on its edge. The bitter taste of resentment coated his tongue. He pictured the glint in his father’s eyes, the satisfied smirk, and his hands clenched into fists.