Gemotions

He slammed the door of the diner so hard the bell above it jangled like an accusation. The chill of the October air did little to cool the fire in his feet. He could feel it creeping up his legs, a slow, agonizing burn. He needed to get off his feet. Now.

He lurched into a booth, ignoring the startled look of the waitress. Everything felt oppressive, too bright, too loud. The clatter of cutlery, the chattering voices – it was all a symphony of irritants.

Across the booth, a woman was studying him. Her eyes, the same shade of angry blue as his, narrowed. She slowly lifted her own aching foot.

"Erythromelalgia?" she asked, her voice laced with a challenge. He flinched, instinctively wanting to deny it. He hated the shared experience, the imposed intimacy.