Gemotions

The park felt… wrong. The sun, ordinarily a source of comfort, seemed to glare. The birdsong, usually a welcome sound, grated on his nerves. David kept reaching for the damp handkerchief in his pocket, wiping the sweat from his brow. The diagnosis, delivered with such clinical detachment, had left him in a state of disquiet. He felt like a ship without a rudder.

He sat on a bench, observing a young woman sketching in a notepad. She had a certain air about her. She’d looked at him, and then looked away, as if hesitant to intrude. He noticed she kept rubbing her left hand, tracing the same small circular pattern on her arm.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he began, his voice rough. “Do you… do you happen to…?”