Gemotions

The clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation grated on John’s nerves. He sat alone at a table, watching Amelia across the room. She was laughing, her head thrown back, a picture of effortless joy. He felt a sharp pang, a deep and unyielding sadness.

He picked at his chicken, the food tasteless and unappetizing. He remembered their shared meals, the warmth and intimacy they’d once shared. The joy had vanished. The memories had become a bitter aftertaste.

He excused himself, making his way toward the bar. He ordered a double scotch, the amber liquid promising, at least, temporary oblivion. He needed something to quiet the turmoil within, something to dull the sharp edges of his loss.