Gemotions

He’d just finished meticulously polishing his vintage car, the chrome gleaming under the afternoon sun. John ran a hand over the smooth, cold surface, a familiar gesture that always brought a sense of satisfaction. The rhythmic click of the latch on the garage door followed by his father’s footsteps felt ingrained in his life. “Hey, son,” his father began, an unusual seriousness in his tone.

John braced his hand on the car, his knuckles white. The air felt suddenly thick, the cheerful chatter of the birds overhead fading into the background.

“I’m joining the Islamic faith,” his father declared. The words hung in the air. John swallowed hard, the taste of metal suddenly coating his tongue.