Gemotions

He found himself avoiding the coffee shop where he and Mr. Henderson used to meet every Tuesday. The aroma of roasted beans, once a comfort, now felt like a taunt. Every Tuesday, they would dissect current events, from the most mundane to the most complex. Now, the space was empty. The chair where Mr. Henderson always sat, a worn leather armchair, was unoccupied. He would catch his reflection in the coffee shop window and notice how thin his face had gotten, and his shoulders seemed to slump even more. He ordered his usual, paid, and left a large tip.