Gemotions

The crowd at the food festival felt like a suffocating mass of bodies. Olivia, pushing her way through, caught sight of it: "Zola's Zaatar." It was *her* grandmother's recipe, the one she'd lovingly perfected over the years. A wave of lightheadedness swept over her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the swirling colours to recede. She felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her chilled to the bone. Her mouth was dry, her throat constricted.

The vendor, a woman with vibrant, long braids, was handing out samples with a practiced smile. The aroma was, undeniably, the same. Olivia wanted to retreat, to disappear, to find a place to be alone.