Gemotions

He’d driven three towns over, promising himself a perfect plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Now, slumped against the red vinyl booth, his stomach clenched tighter than a fist. The neon sign above the diner door, usually a beacon, now seemed to mock him with its garish glow.

He’d almost tripped entering the nearly empty diner, catching himself on the coat rack. He found he could not even look the server, a boy in a too-big apron, directly in the eyes. "Just water, thanks," he’d said, his voice a gravelly whisper.

He traced the rim of the water glass with his finger. His chest felt heavy, constricted. He wanted to disappear. The news – Angelo’s was closing – had landed with the force of a physical blow. He felt exposed, foolish for having made the trek.