Gemotions

The tiny, cramped bakery, owned by Leo's family, had always been a haven. The smell of fresh bread and the familiar chatter of the Italian-speaking staff were comforting. Today, though, it felt suffocating. Mark, his boyfriend, stood by the counter, attempting to order a cannoli in passable, accented Italian.

Leo watched from behind the register, the muscles in his jaw clenched. The baker, old Giovanni, beamed at Mark, praising his efforts.

The sweetness of the pastries suddenly felt cloying. He found himself subtly correcting Mark's pronunciation, his voice sharp and precise. It was a reflex, a need to maintain the barrier. To protect his history, his world.