Gemotions

The cafe's Muzak was a familiar, bland torture. Then, it hit him. A piano melody, a slowed-down version of his own composition, “Crimson Skies.” His jaw clenched. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the sugar packets. The waitress, a teenager with too much eyeliner, jumped. “Everything alright, sir?” he managed a tight smile, “Just peachy.”

His pulse hammered in his ears as the singer’s warbling voice butchered the lyrics he’d poured his heart into. They’d changed the rhythm, the phrasing, everything! He wanted to scream, to leap over the counter and tear the speakers from the ceiling.

He paid the bill, leaving a crumpled dollar on the table. Outside, the city air felt thick, suffocating. He quickened his pace, the echo of that mangled tune ringing in his head.