Gemotions

The bar was packed, the air thick with smoke and the scent of stale beer. Martha, nursing a whiskey, heard the opening chords of "Broken Wings" from the jukebox. It was *her* song, but now it was sung by someone else, a grizzled old bluesman. He had taken her melody and turned it into something hard, something rough, something she never intended.

She took a large gulp of the whiskey, the liquor burning a trail down her throat. She watched the singer, his face etched with a lifetime of experience. The crowd was loving it. It sounded… good, yes, but in a way that made her feel a bitter, unfamiliar ache.

She put down her drink and turned to leave. A man, hearing the song, put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged his hand away.