Gemotions

He’d always loved the way the sunlight hit the red-checkered tablecloths at Mama Rosa’s. It made the pasta shimmer, the sauce gleam. Today, the light seemed muted, the colors faded. "This is where we had our first date, you know," he said to himself, taking a seat at his usual table. His hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as he unfolded his napkin.

His wife, Sarah, was late. He glanced at his watch again. He’d ordered her favorite, the fettuccine Alfredo, and a bottle of their favorite Chianti. He imagined her arriving, her face lighting up as she saw him, her hand reaching out for his. He felt an intense need to hold her hand.

The waiter, old Giovanni, approached with a somber look. "The restaurant… it closes next month," he mumbled, his voice thick with regret. He watched the man's expression flatten, all the joy and anticipation in his face vanishing.