Gemotions

The going-away dinner was a disaster. I sat opposite him at the Italian restaurant, the scent of garlic and tomato sauce doing nothing to soothe my agitation. He regaled the table with anecdotes of his new life in Los Angeles, his face illuminated with excitement. I picked at my pasta, barely touching the food.

His friends, the new ones he’d made, kept making jokes, and he was laughing along with them. I felt like an outsider, a relic of a past he was eager to discard. He reached across the table to touch my hand. I flinched, pulling my hand away.

The waitress asked if everything was alright. I mumbled something, then excused myself to the bathroom. I leaned against the cold tiles, trying to take a deep breath, and feeling utterly stranded.