Gemotions

She drummed her nails on the polished counter of the hospital administrator's office. Each tap was a tiny hammer blow against the polite facade. The air in the room felt thick with forced pleasantries.

“Are you quite certain?” she asked, her voice a precise instrument of icy politeness. The administrator, a man with a perpetually damp handshake, nodded with irritating enthusiasm.

He then had the temerity to offer her a soothing cup of tea. She didn't accept, and instead stood abruptly, her silk scarf a flash of colour against her severe black suit. Her stomach churned. The very idea of having someone else’s history, filled with their struggles, was abhorrent.