Gemotions

"Just a minute," she said, her voice tight, "I'll be right back." Her husband, David, looked up from his meal, confused, and watched her as she stood up from the table and rushed out of the restaurant.

In the bathroom, she leaned against the cool tile, her heart hammering against her ribs. The restaurant's speaker system blared it out, the song she'd written during her days of heartache. He'd never know, she thought, about the love and loss that had once poured out of her heart.

The song was ruined. He was butchering it, twisting it with his voice. The singer was some teenager, singing it as if it were a silly song. A wave of sickness washed over her; the memories of her past were suddenly so vivid.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sound, the sensation of being utterly exposed and violated. She returned to her meal, and the table, in the restaurant, felt a million miles away from what it was before.