Gemotions

He stared at the peeling wallpaper in the waiting room, tracing the faded floral pattern with his index finger. The floral pattern and the waiting room were both awful. The room was too warm, and the air smelled faintly of artificial lemon cleaner. Every tick of the clock felt like a deliberate insult. He felt a constant itchiness beneath his skin.

He'd been forced into this, pushed by well-meaning friends and concerned family members. He found himself incapable of the polite small talk others seemed to effortlessly navigate. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to go home, to be left alone.

The door swung open, and he saw a face he knew well. His old nemesis, Susan. She tilted her head, a familiar gesture that had always irked him. "Mark," she said, her voice smooth and professional, "come on in." He forced a small, reluctant nod, his throat tight with a surge of renewed ire.