Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked down Clara's back. The Italian cookbook lay open on the kitchen counter, splattered with olive oil and tomato sauce. She had been sure that Leo, her husband, wasn't familiar with the language. And yet, she had heard him talking to her mother. He was mimicking the tone of her mother. Every inflection. Every gesture. His words were so precise and accurate. The ceramic tiles beneath her feet seemed to tilt. A scream built in her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to maintain a semblance of composure. The world spun.