Gemotions

The cafe buzzed with the Saturday morning rush. He’d come seeking solace in the weak, overpriced coffee, not the gut-punch of recognition. The singer, perched precariously on a tiny stage, was butchering his song. He knew every chord, every inflection, every breath. She was off-key, the tempo dragged, and the arrangement… atrocious. He gripped his mug, knuckles white, the ceramic digging into his palm. He wanted to scream, to stop the music, to claw back what was his.

His foot tapped erratically against the floor. He focused on the grime on the window, the way the sunlight distorted the street outside. Anything to stop the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He took a long, slow sip of the coffee, its warmth doing little to soothe the growing ache in his chest.

The applause was polite, tepid. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back with a loud scrape. He didn’t meet the singer's eye as he shoved past the tables, heading for the exit. He needed air, a long walk, something to wash the taste of stolen joy from his mouth.