Gemotions

He’d said he was “busy.” That’s what David had told me. Busy. Now, here he was, across the room at the gallery opening, arm-in-arm with a woman who looked suspiciously like the one who’d “accidentally” called him last week while I was over. A vein throbbed in my forehead.

The exhibit was pretentious, the wine was awful, and the small talk felt like sandpaper against my teeth. But I would endure. I strolled over to them, forcing a smile that felt like a clenched fist.

“Oh, Mark,” I said, my voice syrupy with insincerity. “Fancy meeting you here. And who is this lovely lady?”

I watched as his face went pale, and her smile became rigid. Perfect.