Gemotions

The line at the DMV was longer than the Mississippi River. She tapped her foot, the rhythmic thump a staccato against the sterile silence of the waiting room. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation. She'd been here for three hours, and her patience was wearing thin.

She’d finally reached the front, only to be told that the form she needed was out of stock. She wanted to scream. She'd just spent the morning trying to book a therapy session. The therapist, recommended by her doctor for her crippling anxiety, was named Mark Henderson. A shiver ran down her spine.

She recalled the playground. Henderson, the ringleader, always relishing in her humiliation. The thought of pouring her insecurities out to him made her want to retreat back into the shadows.