Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven times, each bong a physical jolt. Amelia paced the worn Persian rug, the silk threads cool beneath her bare feet. She'd been up since dawn, unable to settle. A client had canceled, leaving a gaping void in her day. She craved a distraction, something to fill the hollowness that had settled in her chest. A forgotten memory surfaced – Mark, the bane of her childhood, now a therapist in the city. A flicker of something – was it amusement? – crossed her face.

She grabbed her car keys, the metal cold against her palm. A long drive, a long shot. Maybe a conversation, purely out of curiosity.