Gemotions

The invitation sat on Amelia's fridge, a gleaming beacon of potential disaster. Mark's party. Her party. Both, apparently, on the same Saturday. A vein in her forehead throbbed. She reread the glittery script: "You're Invited!" Then she slammed the fridge door, the magnetic seal a loud crack. She started pacing the kitchen, phone clutched in her hand. Who to uninvite? How to politely excuse herself from Mark's?

The air in the apartment felt thick, heavy. She glanced at the clock: 3:17 PM. Not nearly enough time. She needed to finalize the caterer, confirm the DJ, and somehow, magically, erase the date from Mark's memory. She grabbed her hair and pulled, a low groan escaping her lips.

Her phone rang, a shrill blare. It was the bakery. The cake wasn't ready.