Gemotions

The cafe buzzed with Friday night chatter, the aroma of burnt coffee a familiar scent that usually soothed her. Tonight, however, it churned her stomach. The tinny notes of a piano drifted through the air, and she recognized the opening chords. It was *her* song, "Crimson Tears." She'd poured her heart into that tune, years ago.

She gripped her lukewarm latte, knuckles white. The pianist, a young woman with a tangled braid, butchered the melody. Each clumsy chord struck a fresh nerve.

“Honestly,” she muttered, her jaw clenched tight. She wanted to scream, to run up there and snatch the microphone away. She remained seated, seething, her ears practically bleeding from the botched performance.