Gemotions

"No." The word escaped Maya’s lips as a choked whisper. She hadn’t slept well, and the news of the closing of "Chez Pierre" felt like a final insult. Her stomach churned. The tiny bistro, with its checkered tablecloths and the scent of freshly baked bread, was her escape. She had been taking refuge in it from the storm of her life for years.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. She pushed back from her desk, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. She needed air, needed to get away from the sterile environment of her office. She grabbed her purse, the leather cold against her palm. Outside, the harsh sunlight seemed amplified, a blinding reminder of the impending darkness.