Gemotions

The cafe buzzed with the Saturday lunchtime crowd, the scent of roasting coffee mingling with the chatter. Sarah, however, registered none of it. She sat frozen, her latte growing cold on the table as a familiar melody wafted from the small stage. It was "Crimson Sky," her song. Her song, *being butchered*. The singer's voice was a flat, uninspired imitation, devoid of the emotion she'd poured into every lyric.

Her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. A hot flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a furious red. She felt a tremor in her jaw, a tic she usually managed to suppress. She wanted to scream, to run up there and snatch the microphone, but she was paralyzed.

She considered getting up and leaving, but the injustice of it held her rooted. The other patrons seemed to be enjoying it, oblivious to the sacrilege being committed. Each clumsy chord struck on the acoustic guitar felt like a personal insult, a deliberate mockery.