Gemotions

The antique shop owner, Mr. Henderson, kept calling him “Professor.” The man, whose name was David, gritted his teeth. He'd come in for a simple assessment of a chipped porcelain teacup. Now, this Henderson was handing him a leather-bound book with his name embossed in gold. “A biography, my dear Professor! A literary masterpiece!”

David slammed the teacup down on the counter. The delicate china shuddered. He snatched the book, the smooth leather cool against his sweaty palms. He flipped it open. The first sentence detailed his fondness for obscure bird calls, something he’d only discussed with his therapist, who, incidentally, seemed to have taken a sudden, inexplicable sabbatical. A vein throbbed in his temple.

He threw the book back at Henderson, who barely flinched. “I’ve never authorized this. I want it destroyed. Now.” His voice was low, controlled, but his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.