Gemotions

Her fingers drummed a frantic tattoo against her thigh. She hated waiting. The air in the shop was thick with the scent of dust and something else, something indefinable that made her skin crawl. The incessant buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights grated on her nerves.

The owner, a burly man with a handlebar mustache, was taking his sweet time. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, fidgeting, wishing she had just come in and gotten it over with rather than calling ahead. Each creak of his chair felt like an eternity.

When he finally turned around, he held a small velvet box. Her heart leaped into her throat, choking her. She had to remain composed. She had to.