The flyer, plastered to the window of "Mama Rosa's," felt like a personal affront. It announced the final day, the end of the best lasagna on Earth. His palms began to sweat, a clammy film coating his hands as he clutched his keys. He scanned the street, each passing car a potential threat, a harbinger of the encroaching doom. The world suddenly felt too loud, the laughter from a nearby park slicing through the afternoon air. He pulled his collar higher, a futile attempt at shielding himself.
He ducked into a convenience store, needing to calm the rising tide of unease. He bought a bottle of water, taking small, rapid sips, the cold liquid doing little to soothe the heat that had flared up across his chest. The cashier, a teenager with a bored expression, asked him if he wanted a bag. He mumbled a negative and rushed back out, convinced the girl was staring at him, judging his fragility.
Back at Mama Rosa's, he found a seat by the back window. Every forkful of pasta seemed to taunt him, each chew a ticking clock. He imagined the owner, Rosa, secretly rejoicing, having orchestrated this closure for some hidden agenda. He glared at her through the steam rising from his plate, convinced she was watching him.