Gemotions

The waitress’s casual tone of voice made him want to launch the salt shaker across the room. They *knew* he came here every Tuesday. The sign on the door felt like a personal affront.

He stared at the menu, the familiar dishes now seeming bland and irrelevant. His pulse hammered in his ears. He wanted to argue, to convince them to change their minds, but the words wouldn’t come.

He paid the bill, leaving a paltry tip, and stalked out, barely acknowledging the waitress's farewell. He was not going to be nice. He was not going to be polite. He was going to find something to break.