Gemotions

The airport felt like a pressure cooker. Amelia's palms were slick with sweat. Her son’s graduation ceremony, the reason for the whole trip, was slipping through her fingers. She clenched her hands into fists, each muscle rigid. The gate attendant's polite reassurances about eventual departures were met with a curt nod and a stony gaze. She wouldn't listen to any suggestions to book a different flight. It was *this* flight or nothing. She pictured herself standing in the back, late, as her son got his diploma. The thought spurred her to walk around the terminal. Each step was a pacing of frustration.