Gemotions

He glared at the microphone, a slender black stalk that loomed over him like a judgmental stranger. He'd agreed to this, but the agreement tasted like ash in his mouth. The fluorescent lights of the banquet hall hummed, amplifying the pressure in his temples.

"Just a few words," his sister had pleaded, her voice saccharine with manufactured goodwill. He grunted in response, crossing his arms. He imagined pushing the mic off the stage, sending it clattering to the floor.

He shifted his weight, felt the starched collar of his shirt dig into his neck. He wished he'd worn his old, comfortable t-shirt instead. The words of a speech felt like a betrayal. His father, beaming across the room, looked like he was about to burst with pride. He wanted to look away.