Gemotions

The coffee tasted like burnt motor oil, as if the universe was actively conspiring against him. Thomas slammed his mug down on the table, the ceramic clinking loudly. The clatter echoed in the almost empty cafe, and he hated himself for the unwanted attention. He could feel his pulse hammering against his temples.

He’d spent the morning hunched over his laptop, battling emails, trying to maintain some semblance of control. That was before his phone rang, another doctor’s appointment postponed. Now this, this dreadful, bitter coffee. He rose abruptly, shoving his chair back with a violent screech, and headed for the door, leaving the half-drunk brew and a small mountain of unpaid bills on the table.