Gemotions

The flyer felt slick and cold between Eleanor's fingers. "Closing August 31st. Thanks for the memories." It was the handwritten note on the butcher paper that did it. The simple script of Mr. Henderson, the owner, who always knew her usual: a booth by the window, the pot roast, extra gravy. Her throat tightened.

She hadn't been in months. The last time, she'd been in a rush, late for a book club meeting, and she'd barely tipped. Now, she stood outside, the setting sun painting long shadows across the empty tables visible through the glass. Her stomach churned, a dull ache that echoed the hollow feeling in her chest.

She went inside, the bell above the door chiming a mournful greeting. Mr. Henderson, his face etched with lines she hadn't noticed before, was wiping down the counter. "Eleanor," he said, his voice softer than she remembered. "Long time."

"I... I'm so sorry," she stammered, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "I should have..." The words caught in her throat. She should have come more often. She should have appreciated it more.