Gemotions

He drummed his fingers on the vinyl tabletop, a frantic tattoo. He’d been anticipating this meal all week, a reward for surviving another soul-crushing Monday. Now, the waitress was taking an age. His mouth, usually watering in anticipation of the spaghetti carbonara, felt dry and tight.

“Just a moment, sir,” she had said, her voice smooth and unhurried. “The chef is… handling something.” He knew. He could feel it in the air, the tension, the unspoken truth that hung heavy like the smell of garlic.

He leaned forward, straining to hear snippets of conversation from the kitchen. Every tick of the clock was a tiny, infuriating hammer blow.