Gemotions

A wave of nausea washed over Mark as the waitress at The Gilded Spoon delivered the news. He’d been about to order his usual, the Shepherd’s Pie. He’d driven across town, specifically to this restaurant, to celebrate the small victory of finally finishing his presentation.

He stared at the menu, the glossy paper suddenly mocking him. His hands started to tremble, a subtle tremor that began in his fingertips. “I… I see,” he stammered, his voice catching in his throat.

The waitress, her face etched with a practiced sympathy, asked if he still wanted to order. He shook his head, unable to speak, the joy of accomplishment evaporated, replaced by a deep, silent ache. He wanted to scream.