Gemotions

The familiar scent of old books and dust filled the library, a setting that normally soothed Eleanor. Tonight, however, it only amplified her agitation. Across the table, James was regaling their mutual friend with a story from their childhood, a story about a summer camping trip.

He was portraying himself as the hero, the brave one, the one who had saved the day. Eleanor, who had actually faced down the raccoon, was reduced to a meek supporting character. Her fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the tabletop, a silent counterpoint to James's inflated ego.

She felt a tightening in her chest. Every sentence, every embellished detail, was a fresh wound. She considered interrupting, but the thought of stooping to his level made her even more unwell.