Gemotions

The flickering neon sign of Angelo's, usually a beacon of warmth, felt like a dying ember. Sarah clutched her purse, her knuckles bone-white. They’d announced the closure just an hour ago. Now, looking at the familiar red-checkered tablecloths through the window, a tremor ran through her.

Her breath hitched as she pushed the door open, the bell above it a jarring chime. The smells of garlic and oregano, always comforting, seemed muted, distant.

She quickly scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. Was it a nightmare? Was this really the end of her Friday night ritual?

She found a corner booth, pulling herself into it. The vinyl felt cold against her skin. She kept her hands under the table, fiddling with the paper placemat, avoiding eye contact with the few other patrons.