Gemotions

The news sliced through Arthur’s Tuesday afternoon like a rusty blade. He leaned back in his chair, the email from the club still open on his screen. "The Last Supper" was shutting down. His hands felt clammy.

He’d always held a deep reverence for the place. The dimly lit atmosphere, the hushed conversations, the perfect martini. He imagined the final, awkward, sad dinner.

He slammed his laptop shut. He needed to be alone. He stood, his movements jerky, and grabbed his coat, heading out the door without a word to his colleagues. His teeth were clenched.