Gemotions

The waiting room was far too bright. Every patterned chair, every framed print of a generic landscape, seemed to mock her. She fiddled with the strap of her purse, a nervous tick she hadn't realized she still had. Her palms felt clammy. This was ridiculous. She, a grown woman, about to have a therapy session, and feeling like this. A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple.

Her name was called. She stood, smoothing down the non-existent wrinkles on her skirt. The therapist’s door was solid, intimidating. Hesitantly, she knocked. A voice, familiar and a little too cheerful, told her to enter.

There, behind a large desk, sat Mark. Mark, the bane of her middle school existence. Mark, who used to tie her shoelaces together and call her “four eyes.” The corners of her mouth twitched. She fought to keep a neutral expression.

“Come in, come in!” Mark gestured to the chair opposite him. He had that unnervingly sincere smile. The room seemed to shrink.