Gemotions

The music in the restaurant thrummed, a loud, intrusive rhythm that only amplified the emptiness inside Harold. He had come here, drawn by a review raving about “Mrs. Gable’s Gumbo.” He should have stayed home. The scent alone was enough to make him queasy. It was his mother's gumbo, the recipe he had written down, the one he had tried to sell.

He picked at the offered bread, his appetite gone. The vibrant colors of the room seemed to blur, and his vision swam. He noticed his breathing becoming shallow. He felt a constriction in his throat, a sensation of being trapped. He felt the weight of the restaurant, its noise, the people laughing, the food being served all around him, suffocating him. He just wanted to disappear.