Gemotions

He’d planned to go to Pietro's tonight. The reservation was made, the anticipation built. Now, staring at the small, handwritten note taped to the front door, Thomas felt a twist in his gut. “Closed. Thank you for your patronage.” He ripped the note from the door, crumpling it in his fist.

The streetlights seemed to hum with an irritating buzz. He wanted to scream. He wanted to burn something. His hands, clenched into fists, shook. He jammed them into his pockets, the rough denim doing little to ease the internal upheaval.

He spat on the sidewalk, the sound sharp and defiant in the empty street. He felt like something had been stolen from him.