Gemotions

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the small Parisian bistro, mirroring the anxiety twisting in Clara's gut. She’d been waiting an hour. Each tick of the grandfather clock on the wall felt like a pinprick. Finally, a text: “Running late, cheri. Be there soon.” A wave of nausea rolled over her. This was the third time this week. She'd put on her favorite dress, the one that always made him compliment her. She rehearsed what she’d say, the carefully crafted, sweet tone she’d adopted for this. Then, the door opened. A woman, her face a mask of practiced charm, spotted her and started walking over. “David?” Clara called out weakly. The woman’s smile faltered, her eyes darting between Clara and a nearby table set for two.