Gemotions

He’d driven past it a hundred times this week. Each time, a knot had tightened in his stomach. The neon sign, “Frank’s Fine Diner,” was dim, a few of the letters flickering erratically. He parked the car today, finally, and got out. The gravel crunched under his feet. He knew this was the day.

The front door, once a vibrant red, was faded and chipped. He pushed it open and entered the familiar gloom. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and frying onions. It was the smell of Sunday mornings and late-night talks. Frank was behind the counter, wiping it with a towel, his face etched with something that mirrored his own feeling.

"Hey, Ben," Frank said quietly, not looking up. "The usual?"

Ben nodded, then slid onto his usual stool. He watched Frank begin to make his order – two eggs over easy, bacon, and a side of hash browns. A familiar, empty ache resonated deep within him as the familiar ritual played out. He knew it would be the last time.