Gemotions

He shoved the magazine across the table. "Look at this," he barked, his voice rough. His wife flinched, but he didn't care. "The 'Emerald Isle Stew'?" A recipe he'd painstakingly developed over years, now being claimed by some touristy pub in Ireland.

A coldness spread through him, and his fingers instinctively curled into fists. He felt a need to do something, anything, to alleviate the pressure building in his head. The pub's bright, cheery photographs on the page grated at him.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm going for a walk," he said, the words strained. He needed to get away, to clear his head, before he said something he would later regret.