Gemotions

The cafe was packed. Sunlight, fractured by the leaves of the ancient oak outside, dappled the tables. He clutched his coffee cup, knuckles bone-white. He’d come here, hoping to lose himself in the anonymity of the crowd. Then, the first chords. His song. Distorted, coming from a clumsy, out-of-tune guitar. He felt his stomach clench. He willed himself to breathe, but his chest felt constricted, as if a weight rested there. The performer, a woman with a voice like gravel and eyes that didn’t quite meet the audience, butchered the lyrics. Every wrong note, every fumbled phrase, hammered at his composure. He wanted to flee, to disappear, but his legs wouldn't obey.