Gemotions

The doctor’s office was oppressively bright, and the beige walls seemed to close in. Eleanor tapped her foot, a sharp staccato against the linoleum. That clueless receptionist, the one with the perpetually vacant smile, had mixed up her files. Hers. With *someone else’s*. The audacity. Now she was staring at a diagnosis of… well, she wouldn't even *say* it. A disease she’d only ever associated with the elderly. She sneered, the edges of her lips curling into a tight, almost imperceptible line.

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the leather strap of her purse. The doctor, a man she’d always considered slightly too eager, kept chattering about lifestyle changes and early detection. As if *she* needed to be told. The man was practically bouncing in his chair. She crossed her arms, a solid barrier between her and his insipid positivity.

“So, you’re saying…” she began, her voice a low, deliberate drawl, “that *I* have… this.” She gestured vaguely at the offending papers, as though they were a particularly unpleasant bug. The doctor's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, which was the only satisfaction she gleaned from the entire ludicrous situation.