Gemotions

The news ripped through Arthur like a rusty blade. Mrs. Gable's Diner, closing. Gone. His Wednesday night ritual, pulverized. He slammed his fist on the counter, rattling the salt shakers. The barista, a skinny kid with a perpetually vacant expression, flinched. Arthur glared at him. "You know anything about this? They tell you they're shutting down? This isn't right."

He stomped out, the bell above the door jangling a discordant farewell. The city air felt thick, suffocating, as if it, too, was conspiring against him. He pictured the booth he always occupied, the worn vinyl, the comforting aroma of frying onions. Now, just emptiness.

His jaw clenched. He marched back to his apartment, the building's facade seeming to lean in on him, mocking his despair. He ripped off his tie and flung it onto the couch. Every surface felt wrong.