Gemotions

The vibrant, festive atmosphere of the restaurant felt utterly wrong. He gripped his water glass so hard his knuckles were white. The waiter approached, chattering in what he now recognized as perfect, fluent Italian. The waiter turned to him. “And for you, signore?”

Across the table, Clara’s eyes gleamed with a childish delight. She’d been speaking to the waiter for minutes, effortlessly. He felt a hot flush creep up his neck. “I want to leave," he muttered.

The noise of the restaurant seemed to amplify, the clinking of glasses a discordant symphony. He could barely breathe.

He stood abruptly, upsetting his chair. “I’m going for a walk.”