Gemotions

Michael avoided eye contact with the cashier, even though he'd been a regular at "The Daily Grind" for years. He shuffled his feet, his worn sneakers scuffing the linoleum. The flyer taped to the counter was a stark white rectangle announcing the closure.

He ordered his usual, a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin, the words catching in his throat. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks as he waited. He usually took a seat at the corner table, but today, he felt exposed, like a performer on stage. Every cough, every murmur, every glance felt like a personal critique.

He retreated to a table near the back, hoping to disappear. The coffee, usually a comfort, tasted bitter today. He found himself hunching over the cup, as if trying to shield himself from the world.