Gemotions

He’d told Sarah on a Tuesday. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving. The smell of turkey already filled the air. She’d been halfway through explaining a particularly ludicrous work story, her voice animated, when he’d dropped the bomb about his impending relocation. She stopped mid-sentence.

The air seemed to thicken. Her breathing became shallow, and she focused on folding her napkin over and over. He kept talking, explaining the reasons, the job offer, the lifestyle upgrade. She nodded, her gaze fixed on the intricate folds of the linen, as if it held the answer to a question she couldn't formulate.

The rest of the evening was a blur of polite conversation and carefully measured smiles. The taste of the stuffing seemed strangely metallic. When he hugged her goodbye, she just patted his back, a curt, mechanical gesture.