Gemotions

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring a discordant note in the quiet of the parking lot. The neon sign of "Tony's Trattoria," usually a beacon of warmth and comfort, now seemed to mock him with its flickering light. The radio blared in the background, a song about lost love, which only intensified the fire within him.

"Bullshit," he growled under his breath, his voice tight. This wasn't happening. Tony’s was his sanctuary, his place. Where he could be himself. Where he could eat the best lasagna on earth.

He stomped out of the car, his steps heavy and echoing in the nearly empty parking lot. He headed straight for the front door, his knuckles turning white as he clenched them. The bell above the door chimed, a sound he'd always found pleasant, now grating on his nerves.