Gemotions

It was the quietest Tuesday in ages. No chatter, no music, no bustling. And then, the paper. He didn't read past the headline. "Mama Rosa's Closing." He felt a tremor in his hand as he set down the paper.

He pushed his chair back from the kitchen table. He was suddenly aware of the ticking clock, the incessant rhythm of the second hand. Each tick felt like a deliberate jab. Everything was wrong.

He paced the confines of his small apartment, feeling the walls closing in. The smell of his morning coffee, now cold, turned his stomach. He felt a deep, profound sense of violation.