Gemotions

He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet cafe. Coffee, cold and stale, sat untouched on the table beside him. The novel, purchased second-hand, had been a disappointment, a rambling mess of clichés. As he tossed it in his bag, a note slid from its pages. He caught it before it could reach the ground, his fingers curling into tight fists.

It was a recipe, handwritten on faded stationery. His stomach clenched. What was the point of a recipe? He just wanted a good story. He glared at the offending paper, his jaw working as if chewing something tough, and balled it up, tossing it into the overflowing trash bin beside him.