Gemotions

The diner was suddenly too hot, the clatter of cutlery too loud, the smell of frying bacon too overpowering. Mark stared at the wallet, perched precariously on the edge of the counter, as though a bomb. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. The waitress, a bored blonde, watched him with a blank expression.

He couldn't swallow. His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He took a shaky breath, then another, trying to regain some semblance of control. He wanted to blurt out something, anything. But his voice had deserted him. All the voices in his head were yelling at once.

He bolted from the diner, the bell above the door jangling mockingly as he fled into the evening air.