Gemotions

He looked… older. The sharp edges of youth, the cocky smirk, softened by time and, presumably, a degree in psychology. He gestured towards the couch with a placid expression she found particularly irritating. She wanted to hurl the potted plant at the wall.

“Please, have a seat, Sarah.” His voice was calm, measured, irritatingly normal. She almost choked.

She planted herself on the edge of the couch, spine ramrod straight. The leather squeaked under her weight. “I… I can't believe this,” she muttered, her voice tight, barely a whisper. The familiar fury, a knot in her stomach, began to tighten its grip.

She focused on the framed diplomas on the wall, each one a testament to his supposed maturity, his supposed ability to help people. The irony was almost too much to bear.