Gemotions

He stared at the photograph, the glossy paper reflecting the harsh overhead light of the airport terminal. It was a picture of a young woman, maybe twenty, with his father's eyes and a defiant tilt to her chin. He’d just learned, via a curt phone call from his stepmother, that he had a sister. A sister he’d never known.

His hands were clammy. He wiped them on his jeans, leaving dark patches. He pictured his perfectly ordered life, the carefully cultivated image of success and stability. This news felt like a rogue wave, threatening to capsize everything.

He hadn’t eaten all day. He felt a throbbing ache behind his eyes, a dull pressure that intensified with each passing moment. He needed to get out of the airport, away from the sterile, buzzing environment. He needed a drink, a strong one.

He turned and walked toward the bar, the photograph still clutched in his trembling fingers.