Gemotions

He’d always held a deep appreciation for "Luigi’s," his sanctuary. When the email arrived, a cold wave of defiance washed over him. *They couldn’t.* The memory of the garlic bread, the way the aged parmesan would fall on his plate, the warmth of the space after a long day – he refused to allow it to be taken.

He refused to consider other eateries, even as colleagues suggested them during their lunch breaks. He would sit at his desk, ignoring their suggestions, and when he finished his tasks, he'd walk briskly towards the restaurant.

He arrived at Luigi’s, the familiar scent of simmering tomato sauce a small balm to his frayed nerves. He ordered his usual, the spaghetti with extra meatballs. Even the waiter's attempts at pleasant conversation were met with curt responses. He sat there, chewing slowly, each bite a silent protest against the impending loss.