Gemotions

"Another round of 'Zelda's Zesty Salsa'?" The waitress's cheerful question felt like a direct insult to Harold's ears. He could barely bring himself to nod. He used to make his salsa for the little farmer’s market down the road, and everyone loved it. He had shared it with Zelda, his old friend, who had a small restaurant. Now, the salsa was a phenomenon, and Zelda was on the cover of the local magazine.

His appetite vanished. He pushed away his plate of fries. The restaurant was bright and bustling, and the smell of the salsa, once a source of pride, now burned in his nostrils.

He swallowed hard, and his eyes stung. He felt as though he had been robbed.