Gemotions

The aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg hung thick in the air, a scent Amelia had come to associate with quiet mornings and the satisfaction of a job well done. Now, it twisted in her gut. She chewed at her lip, watching the barista expertly swirl the foam atop the “Autumn Spice Delight” latte. It was *her* recipe. She’d perfected it, tweaking the proportions of the spices, experimenting with the type of milk, until it was just right. Now, it was on the menu of every cafe in town, a seasonal staple under a name that wasn’t hers.

Her fingers fidgeted with the worn strap of her bag, pulling it tighter against her chest. The cafe buzzed with the chatter of students and the clatter of mugs. Each person who ordered the drink felt like a judgement. Would they like it? Would they know? No, of course they wouldn't know. The barista called out the name, a melodic announcement that felt like a public pronouncement of her own erasure.

Amelia plastered on a smile when the barista handed her the drink. It was perfect, of course, exactly as she had designed it. A tiny tremor ran through her as she took a tentative sip.