Gemotions

He knew the corner table at Luigi's like he knew his own heartbeat. The red-and-white checkered tablecloths, the flickering candlelight, the smell of garlic and oregano—this was where he always came to recharge. After a stressful week at work, the place was his refuge. He always ordered the lasagna. Tonight would be no different.

The waiter, usually jovial, approached with a muted expression. "Mr. Peterson," he began, then hesitated. "Luigi's is… they're closing. They got the notice today."

His breath hitched. He had a sudden dizzying rush. He felt like he had been unmoored. The gentle hum of conversation, which had always soothed him, now seemed to press down, stifling and suffocating. The menu, usually so inviting, felt alien in his hands, each word a stranger. He couldn't bring himself to order anything.