Gemotions

He drums his fingers against the armrest of the waiting room chair. The magazines, filled with glossy images of perfect lives, were utterly useless. The rhythmic thrumming of the air conditioner felt like a taunt. Another five minutes. He’d been told to arrive early, but five minutes still felt like an eternity. Each moment seemed stretched, dilated, until it was unbearable.

He needed to talk. He needed to process. But first, he needed to get through this suffocating, drawn-out experience.

The door to the office opened. A tall figure with familiar eyes stood in the doorway. It was him. Thomas Harding. The therapist he’d requested. A wave of irritation washed over him. The irony of it all.