Gemotions

"Another round?" The bartender's voice sliced through the dim, smoky air of the pub. Marcus just grunted, pushing his empty glass across the sticky counter. He watched the amber liquid pour, the bubbles swirling, reflecting the muted light. He’d read the article online a few hours earlier, the familiar words, the familiar ideas, all attributed to a name that wasn't his.

He traced the rim of the glass with a calloused finger, the coolness offering no solace. His shoulders were slumped, his posture reflecting the weight he carried. He didn’t meet the bartender’s eyes.

He imagined the smug smile of the editor, the self-satisfied pronouncements of his supposed colleague. The very thought made him clench his jaw, a muscle twitching near his temple. He felt a profound sense of isolation, like a ship lost at sea. The pub, usually a comfort, now felt like another prison.

He abruptly stood, dropping a few crumpled bills on the counter. "Thanks," he mumbled, his voice a low rasp. The streetlights outside seemed overly bright, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with his unease.