Gemotions

The aroma hit Amelia like a physical blow. That impossible, perfectly balanced blend of cinnamon, cardamom, and…was that star anise? It was *her* recipe. The one she’d poured years into perfecting, the one that should have been gracing the shelves of her tiny bakery, not plastered across the front of "Spice Merchant Pete's" empire. Her breath hitched, her fingers clenching the cheap plastic fork she’d been using to sample a mystery pastry. She felt suddenly, acutely, cold.

She pushed past the throng of customers, their faces alight with the joy she’d hoped to inspire. The glossy advertisement, featuring a disturbingly cheerful Pete, promised "Pete's Perfect Swirls." A tear pricked at her eye. She could feel the familiar pressure behind her sternum, a tightening that made it difficult to breathe.

"Excuse me," she muttered, nearly bumping into a woman juggling three of the offending pastries. The woman smiled serenely, blissfully unaware of the small war that was erupting in Amelia’s chest. Amelia wanted to scream. She wanted to smash something. She wanted…to go home.