Gemotions

The tiny, stick-figure man on the page, complete with a ridiculously large hat and a permanently bewildered expression, was unmistakably Mr. Grumbles. Mr. Grumbles was the imaginary friend of my childhood, a grumpy, yet ultimately lovable, fellow I'd created to combat loneliness. His hat was always tilted at the same angle. Now, little Timmy, my nephew, was drawing him with remarkable accuracy. I was suddenly desperate to leave.

I mumbled an excuse about needing to check on the roast, a completely fabricated chore. I stood. The room swam for a moment. I began backing away, slowly.

"Wait, Aunt Susan!" Timmy called. "Can Mr. Grumbles come with us to the park tomorrow?"

I forced a smile, a grimace more like it. "Perhaps," I replied, my voice thin. "Perhaps." Then, I practically fled the room.