Gemotions

Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her purse. The cafe was small, intimate, exactly the kind of place she’d told him she never went to because it was "too mainstream." He was sitting at a table by the window, wearing the exact same band t-shirt she’d complimented online, and she could practically *feel* the blood rush to her face. She'd painted herself as effortlessly cool, someone who only frequented dive bars and obscure art galleries. The chipped paint of the cafe's tables seemed to mock her.