Gemotions

The newspaper crinkled in her fist, the ink smudging across her palm. "Bella's Bistro to Close After 25 Years," the headline screamed. Her jaw clenched. Years. Twenty-five years of Friday night dates, celebratory dinners, and the best damn carbonara in the city. A vein throbbed in her temple. She slammed the paper down on the kitchen counter, the ceramic plate of half-eaten toast rattling precariously. Damn.

She snatched her keys, the metal biting into her skin. The urge to smash something, anything, consumed her. Her car tires squealed as she peeled out of her driveway, heading towards Bella's. She didn't have a plan, just the simmering feeling that her stomach was full of hot coals.

The familiar red awning, usually a beacon of warmth, seemed mocking today. She stormed inside, the bell above the door jingling a mournful tune. The scent of garlic and oregano, usually comforting, now felt like a punch to the gut. She grabbed a server and yelled across the restaurant, “Tell Bella I want to see her, NOW!”