Gemotions

The neon sign of "Tony's Trattoria" flickered, casting long, distorted shadows. Today, it felt like the sign was mocking him, a final, cruel flourish before the end. He kept re-reading the notice on the door. It made his stomach churn.

He avoided eye contact with the other patrons as he ate his usual, a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. He tasted nothing, his mind racing. He noticed the waiter, a young man who had always been friendly, staring at him. He was sure the waiter knew. Knew something he didn't. He avoided speaking to anyone.

He drove home, his hands clenched so tightly on the steering wheel his knuckles were white. The familiar route seemed treacherous, each turn a potential trap. He slammed on the brakes as a dog ran into the street. The dog stopped and looked at the car.

Back in his apartment, he locked the deadbolt. He checked the windows again. He felt as though the world was closing in, a tightening vise around his chest. He turned off all the lights, wanting the darkness to protect him.