Gemotions

He tasted bile in his throat. The radio in the gas station blared his song. The cashier, a bored teenager, bobbed his head, totally oblivious. This was a nightmare, surely. The song, “Midnight Bloom,” was a confessional. It was vulnerable and raw. This cover version was a polished, commercial imitation.

His fists were balled and shaking at his sides. He knew he should say something, do something. Demand they turn it off. Buy the radio and smash it. But his tongue felt thick and useless. He felt locked in place.

He finally ripped the car keys from the ignition, almost ripping them clean out. He wouldn't pay. He wouldn't support it, not even indirectly. He stormed out, the bell above the door jangling mockingly as he left.