Gemotions

The flyer felt slick between Amelia's fingers, the glossy image of "Antonio's Authentic Italian" mocking her. She crumpled it, the sound a sharp crack in the sudden silence of the nearly deserted cafe. A vein throbbed in her temple. This couldn’t be happening. She'd practically lived on their pesto pasta.

Her breath hitched. She slammed her fist on the small, round table. The tiny ceramic cup rattled, nearly spilling the dregs of her lukewarm espresso. Twenty years. Twenty years of perfect tiramisu, of friendly chats with Antonio himself, of feeling like *family*.

She grabbed her phone, her thumb already hovering over the "call" button for Antonio. The words, when he answered, would be a torrent. She'd demand an explanation. She'd...she'd do *something*.