Gemotions

A tremor ran through David's hands as he stared at the small, printed sign taped to the restaurant door. Closed. Permanently. He re-read the handwritten note, the words blurring slightly in the late afternoon sun. His chest felt tight, constricted. A wave of heat washed over him, a physical manifestation of a sudden, inner tension.

He reached into his pocket for his keys, then let his hand fall back to his side. He usually ate there every Tuesday, the comfort food a familiar haven in his otherwise unpredictable life. He walked along the sidewalk, his pace brisk, his gaze sweeping the street as if searching for an alternative.

He had to get his bearings. The silence left by the absence of Mama Rosa’s clamored in his ears. What would he do for dinner? Where would he find the same warmth, the same perfect, slightly sweet sauce on the spaghetti and meatballs? This was a crisis.