Gemotions

A printed notice declared the closure of "Chez Pierre." *Impossible.* He reread the letter, the words blurring before his eyes. It was a sacrilege. It *couldn't* be happening.

He made a reservation, sitting at his usual table, in the corner. He barely spoke to the waiter. He picked at the food, the usual joy absent. The other patrons looked just as mournful.

He sat for hours, refusing to acknowledge the encroaching darkness. He ordered another bottle of wine and another plate of food. He stayed until they ushered him out the door. He didn't say goodbye to anyone.