Gemotions

He had been so *proud*. Proud of the way he'd painstakingly learned her language, proud of the way he could now speak it fluently. He was even, she suspected, a little proud of himself for being *better* at it than she was, at that point. It was a joke, really. That thought, however, was not funny at all. She sipped her tea, carefully avoiding his gaze as he launched into another tale, using the language. The words, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a weapon, aimed directly at her. She put down her cup, the clink of the ceramic against the saucer loud in the room.