Gemotions

The clatter of dishes in the kitchen usually brought comfort, but tonight, the sound grated on his nerves. He felt a strange tension in his shoulders, a prickling sensation across his skin. He was aware of every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves outside.

He heard it then. The unmistakable rhythm of his native tongue, flowing from the kitchen. He knew it at once. He stood rooted. She was speaking Arabic. His Arabic. He walked in, his legs felt heavy.

She turned from the stove, a surprised look on her face. Her eyes met his.

"مرحباً يا حبيبي," she said, her pronunciation impeccable. He felt the colour drain from his face.