Gemotions

Her hands trembled as she stood at the bar, the jukebox blaring. *Her* song, stripped bare and repackaged with a pop sheen that made her stomach churn. The cheap guitar riffs and vapid vocals were an abomination. She wanted to scream.

Heat flushed through her, prickling her skin. The bartender, oblivious, refilled her glass with a practiced ease. She took a large gulp, the amber liquid doing little to soothe the rising tide of anger. This was a nightmare.

She pictured her old band, the sweat-soaked rehearsal room, the late nights spent crafting the song. All for this? This watered-down mockery? She slammed her fist on the counter, the noise barely audible above the music. The need to obliterate the source of the sound was almost overwhelming.