Gemotions

He slammed the door of the diner so hard the bell above it rattled. The waitress, a woman with kind eyes and a tired smile, flinched. He barked out a curt, "Coffee," and slid into a booth, pulling his worn leather jacket tighter. The rhythmic clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations grated on him. He picked at a sugar packet, the paper tearing under the force of his fingers. He imagined the other inventor, the one who’d stolen his thunder, sipping his own coffee, basking in the glow of the press coverage. He felt a surge of heat in his chest, a tight knot forming in his jaw.