Gemotions

The flickering neon sign of the bar cast long, distorted shadows across the rain-slicked street. He perched on a stool, nursing a whiskey, the amber liquid doing little to warm the icy core of him. The raucous laughter of the other patrons grated on his nerves. He felt a profound disconnect, a sense of being an outsider looking in on a world that didn’t belong to him. His jaw was tight; he could barely move his head.

A woman walked in, her face etched with a similar weariness. She ordered a drink, and as she brought the glass to her lips, he saw it: the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor that he knew so well. The air around him suddenly felt charged, heavy. He turned, the unasked question forming on his lips. She looked at him, and her eyes, clouded with a familiar desolation, gave him the answer.

"It's awful, isn't it?" she said, her voice a low murmur that somehow cut through the noise.