Gemotions

“Are you *kidding* me?” He asked, his voice strained. The organiser, a young woman with too much lipstick and a relentlessly cheerful tone, simply repeated the same canned apology. He wanted to argue, to demand answers, to shake some sense into them. His foot tapped a furious rhythm against the linoleum floor. The decorations, still up in the venue, seemed to mock him. He could feel the pulse in his temples throbbing, a relentless reminder of the disappointment. He looked at the wasted effort, the abandoned dream.