Gemotions

The champagne flute in Michael's hand trembled, the bubbly liquid sloshing precariously close to the rim. He took a hasty gulp, the metallic taste doing nothing to calm the chaos brewing inside him. The chatter of the crowd, usually a comforting backdrop, now sounded like a swarm of angry bees.

His palms were slick with sweat. He kept wiping them on his trousers, the fabric offering little relief. He felt exposed, vulnerable. His dad’s life, a carefully constructed narrative of success and stability, was about to be laid bare, and he was the one expected to deliver the eulogy.

He saw his reflection in the mirrored wall. His face was pale, his eyes wide, and he looked nothing like himself. He wanted to rewind time, to skip this moment.