Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the pub. Clara, clutching a nearly empty glass of wine, heard the piano chords. It was *her* song, the one she’d bled over, the one that had, for a fleeting moment, made her feel like something other than a burden. The opening bars. The lyrics, slightly altered.

Her palms began to sweat. She felt rooted to the bar stool, unable to move, unable to speak. The performer, a woman with a voice like spun gold, sang of heartbreak, of loss. A loss Clara had written of, yet hadn't felt in so long.

She’d spent the last year tethered to her parents, a shadow in their lives. Her own creativity seemed to have withered. Every decision, every action, seemed to require their approval. The music now felt distant, foreign. The singer's artistry only served to remind her of her own stagnation.

She wanted to run, to scream. She took another gulp of wine, the fire burning down her throat, but she remained. Frozen. Captivated. And, in a strange way, reassured.