Gemotions

The news report crackled from the television, the anchorman's voice a smooth, uncaring drone. "The Rusty Spoon Diner… citing financial difficulties…" The words cut through Frank like a physical blow. His jaw clenched so tight he could feel the muscles in his face knotting.

He rose from his chair, knocking over the coffee table, sending scattered magazines and remotes flying. He glared at the television, as if the screen itself was the cause of his current disquiet. It wasn't just a diner; it was *the* diner. Where his grandpa had taken him every Saturday morning.

He snatched his coat from the hook by the door and was halfway out before he even registered the fact that he was leaving. He had to do something.