Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Marcus’s temple, even though the bakery was cool. He kept fiddling with the apron strings, pulling them tighter and tighter, as if to physically restrain himself. He’d seen the “Queen Bee Brownie” advertised on the bakery’s chalkboard. It was the exact recipe his grandmother had given him, the one she’d always sworn was a family secret.

He felt the familiar urge to pace, something he hadn’t done since his divorce. The aroma of baking, usually a comfort, now felt like a suffocating pressure. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles pale. His palms grew slick, and he wiped them on his jeans.

He had to say something. Confront the owner, Ms. Gable. But the words caught in his throat. He just watched the customers stream in, buying the damned brownies.