Gemotions

A wave of heat washed over Michael as he stood in front of "The Golden Spoon." He stared at the handwritten sign: "Closing. Thanks for the Memories." He hadn't been here in six months. The last time, he'd been late, rushing, and curt with Mrs. Gable, the owner, when she’d made a mistake with his order.

He ran a hand through his hair, the skin on his scalp prickling. He’d justified his absence with a busy schedule, a new diet. Now, confronted with the reality of its loss, his excuses felt flimsy, paper-thin. He’d known, subconsciously, that the warmth of her presence and the flavor of the food would be gone forever.

He took a shaky breath, then, unable to bear it, turned and walked away. The memory of Mrs. Gable’s disappointment haunted him.