Gemotions

“Well, this is just peachy,” David muttered, running a hand through his hair. His fingers were already twitching. Mrs. Crabtree, a woman who seemed to have been born old, beamed from the school’s front steps. She was directing traffic, a vision of absolute control.

He could practically smell the familiar scent of her overpowering perfume. The vivid imagery of her red pen, slashing through his carefully constructed essays. He suddenly became aware of how tight his shirt was.

He cleared his throat. He saw his daughter’s excited face as she ran towards her friends. He gritted his teeth. He felt a powerful urge to just turn and walk away.