Gemotions

The chipped Formica table felt cold against Beatrice's cheek as she leaned over it, feigning intense interest in the sugar packets. The waitress, Martha, a woman who’d known Beatrice’s usual order for years, had just delivered the devastating news: Angelo’s was shutting down.

Beatrice cleared her throat, suddenly preoccupied with the tiny, crinkled squares. Her vision blurred slightly. Her fingers fumbled with the packet, ripping it at an odd angle. She mumbled something about a "terrible shame," her voice barely audible.

"Yeah," Martha said, a flicker of something akin to pity in her eyes. "They're gonna sell the building. Last day's next Sunday." Beatrice nodded numbly, unable to meet Martha’s gaze. She stared at the sugared granules as though they held the secrets of the universe, and wanted very, very much to sink through the floor.