Gemotions

"Impossible," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible above the din of the marketplace. The 'Spicy Sunrise Salsa,' emblazoned on a stall’s gaudy sign, was hers. She'd worked for years perfecting the balance of sweetness and heat, the precise chop of the tomatoes. A wave of dizziness washed over her, making the vibrant colours of the market blur.

She gripped the edge of a nearby table for support, her knuckles white. Her vision swam. It was a deep, sinking dread. She felt a prickling sensation across her skin, as if a thousand tiny needles were embedded.

The vendor, a man with a booming laugh, was happily ladling out samples. He was doing it with a flourish that was *hers.* The energy in her body felt like it was getting sucked away. She could barely stand.