Gemotions

The takeout containers clattered to the floor, forgotten. Elias had walked in, expecting the usual Friday night routine: a lukewarm documentary and lukewarm affection. Instead, he heard it, the clumsy, halting cadence of his own mother tongue, filtering from the kitchen. He froze. Every muscle went rigid. He’d never spoken it around Clara. Not once. He’d guarded that part of himself, locked it away.

He crept toward the doorway, peering in. Clara stood at the counter, her face scrunched in concentration as she butchered the pronunciation of “kuchnia.” A wave of nausea hit him. He pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to suppress the bile that threatened to rise.

“What…what is that?” His voice came out a strangled whisper. Clara spun around, her face instantly betraying guilt. The spatula she held dropped to the floor with a metallic clang.