Gemotions

The claustrophobia of the confined space started to get to him. Mark slumped against the wall, his tie loosened. The digital display on the control panel taunted him, showing the slow, agonizing passage of time. He stared at the floor, the same dull, grey linoleum that graced his grandmother’s kitchen. He could almost smell the apple pie she used to bake, the cinnamon and the warmth.

He looked over at Susan, his coworker, and noticed that she had her hand on her necklace. It felt like an invitation. He thought about his grandfather’s stories, how time seemed to compress itself into these moments, these feelings.

“You know,” he said, his voice hesitant, “I was just thinking about my childhood.”

Susan glanced at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

He continued, the words suddenly tumbling out. “Remembering all those small things. The way the leaves smelled in the fall, the feel of the rough bark of the oak tree in my backyard.” He let out a sigh.