Gemotions

"You're kidding me," Mark said, his voice a low growl. The waiter, a young man who looked like he'd just started shaving, stammered a confirmation. Mark’s shoulders tightened. This couldn’t be happening. Not to the Rusty Spoon.

He shoved the menu away. The leather felt cheap beneath his hand. Everything seemed cheap suddenly. The lighting was too bright. The music was too quiet. The chatter of other patrons grated on his nerves.

He signaled for the check, the gesture more a demand than a request. He felt a need to punish someone, to make them understand the injustice of it all. He was burning up inside.