Gemotions

Sweat prickled on Leo's brow as he leaned against the graffiti-covered wall, hidden in the shadows. From across the street, the discordant wail of a saxophone bled from the dimly lit club. It was his song, a lament for lost love, now a cheap, jazzy jingle. The sound grated on his ears, a violation.

He ground his teeth, envisioning the smug performer, probably swaddled in some ridiculous silk scarf. A violent impulse flared – to charge in there, grab the mic, and dismantle the performance note by note. His fists clenched, the anger a physical ache. He pushed off the wall, then paused, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. What did he expect? They were all vultures.