Gemotions

Mark adjusted his tie, feeling the knot constrict his throat. He hated these formal occasions, the forced smiles, the superficial conversations. His father’s old fishing rod, a bamboo beauty, leaned against the wall in the corner. He’d promised his sister he’d handle the sale, but now, facing the potential buyer, a man with a ruthlessly assessing gaze, he wished he'd never agreed.

He was acutely conscious of his own scruffy appearance, the way his hands always seemed to fidget. He wished he could just disappear. The buyer, a tall, imposing figure, was appraising the rod with a practiced eye. "Interesting piece," the man said, his voice smooth and detached. Mark tensed.

He forced a smile. "Yes," he managed, his voice sounding oddly high-pitched. "My father… loved it." The words felt hollow, inadequate. He looked at his feet.