Gemotions

The cafe was packed, the air thick with the smell of coffee and something sweeter – the scent of his own melody. He hadn't licensed it to anyone. He recognized the opening chords immediately, that distinctive fingerpicking pattern he'd spent months perfecting. His jaw clenched. He pushed past the overflowing tables, his heart hammering against his ribs.

A young woman sat on a small stage, bathed in the harsh glow of a spotlight. She was butchering it, the tempo all wrong, the emotion completely absent. He wanted to shout, to stop her, to scream about stolen work, but he swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His hands tightened into fists, the nails digging into his palms.

He stood, frozen, for the duration of the song, which felt like an eternity. When it ended, she beamed at the scattered applause. He took a deep breath, fighting the urge to tear the guitar from her hands. "That," he managed, his voice tight, "was my song."