Gemotions

The chipped paint on the picnic table seemed to blur before her eyes. The way Clara spoke about the carnival, her voice full of light, made her want to retreat into herself. She remembered the crowds, the overwhelming noise, the dizzying rides. Her memory felt like a collection of fragmented images, each one a source of unease. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm against the easy cadence of Clara's recollections. The food on her plate suddenly lost its appeal.