Gemotions

"More coffee?" the barista asked, his voice a low drone. Clara waved him away. The persistent thrum in her chest intensified with each passing minute. The gallery had hung her sculptures, the ones she hadn't finished, the ones she'd considered failures. Now, they were on display, under harsh spotlights, open to judgment. Someone had somehow copied her work and was getting all the glory.

She drummed her fingers on the counter, a staccato beat against the gentle jazz music. Her eyes darted around the cafe, searching for an exit. The crowd, the noise, the saccharine sweetness of the air—it all felt oppressive. She needed movement, she needed space. She threw some crumpled bills onto the counter and bolted out the door, the bell above it a dissonant chime in her ears.