Gemotions

It was the annual charity gala, a sea of designer dresses and forced smiles. Eleanor, my childhood friend, was holding court, dressed in an emerald gown, the "chief marketing officer" of a major cosmetics company. The company’s marketing consisted of a poorly run social media account. I felt a surge of something hot and restless as I watched her.

I approached her, my own dress a simple black number. "Eleanor," I said, my tone overly sweet, "That’s a beautiful gown. And the company is thriving! I heard that this quarter’s numbers were… spectacular." I watched the slight widening of her eyes, the minute tightening of her jaw.

Later, I intercepted a few important people on their way in, making sure they knew of the real situation. I excused myself, feeling a certain lightness.