Gemotions

He walked past the bakery window, the sweet aroma a familiar phantom limb. Inside, the "Golden Crown" cookies, his recipe, were piled high, shimmering under the display lights. He stopped, his shoulders slumping, and leaned against a lamppost. The city noises faded into a dull hum in his ears. He wasn't surprised; he knew the woman he’d given the recipe to would profit, she always had. He just hadn't expected the hollow feeling that now bloomed in his gut.

He fished out a cigarette and lit it, the flame a tiny dance in the gathering twilight. A young couple walked past, hand in hand, discussing the cookies' merits. He watched them, a detached observer. The smoke curled upwards, blurring the edges of the brightly lit bakery, the joy of the couple, and the world in front of him. He knew he'd go home and make soup again, alone.