Gemotions

The restaurant was too bright, too cheerful. Eleanor ran a hand through her hair, smoothing down strands that seemed to stand on end. John, across the table, was mid-sentence, describing a thrilling night at the opera. With “Emily.” Eleanor’s head swam. She’d been at the opera last week. With an Emily.

A knot formed in her chest. She pushed her untouched appetizer around the plate. Her fingers felt cold. The clatter of cutlery and the murmur of conversation faded into a background drone.

“That’s… quite the coincidence, isn't it?" she said, her voice barely a whisper. She focused on the bread basket, as if by avoiding eye contact, she could avoid the truth she suspected.