Gemotions

“He’s… a bit of a character,” Mark heard himself say, his voice strained. He was talking about Mr. Peterson, his daughter’s new art teacher. Mr. Peterson. The same Mr. Peterson who had once critiqued Mark’s finger painting with such brutal honesty that Mark still had dreams of red paint splattered across his shoes.

His palms were slick with perspiration. He kept fidgeting with his keys, turning them over and over. His daughter, Emily, skipped ahead, oblivious to the emotional turmoil churning within him. He watched her, a hollow feeling echoing in his chest.

The schoolyard, previously a haven, now felt like a battlefield. His face felt oddly hot, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.