Gemotions

He picked at the dry toast, the rough texture grating against his teeth. The morning sun, usually a welcome guest, felt like a harsh spotlight, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He hadn't bothered to shave; the stubble prickled his jaw, mirroring the irritated feeling he felt inside. The newspaper, usually devoured with gusto, lay untouched on the table.

He'd read the news online, a short blurb nestled beneath the stock prices: "The Pasta Palace to Close its Doors." His stomach twisted. He couldn't remember the last time he’d gone. He knew it was the best, however, and that made the ache worse.

He rose from the table, a strange emptiness echoing in his chest. He took a long, slow walk, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket. The familiar route that usually cheered him seemed desolate.