Gemotions

The neon sign of "Tony's Trattoria" flickered, mirroring the frantic pulse behind Marco's ribs. He’d just read the Facebook post, a stark announcement amidst a flurry of recipe videos: Closing. Permanently. He yanked open the door, a gust of wind carrying the scent of garlic and oregano. His vision danced, a kaleidoscope of red checkered tablecloths and the familiar, comforting clatter of silverware.

He practically leaped across the room, nearly tripping over a chair, to approach Tony himself. “Tony!” The word burst from him, loud and uncontrolled. Tony, a mountain of a man with a perpetually flour-dusted apron, looked up, his face etched with a weariness Marco hadn't noticed before.

Marco’s fingers drummed a rapid tattoo against the worn wooden bar. He needed to order. He needed to savor. He needed *something*. "The usual? Large lasagna? And…and a tiramisu, too?" His voice cracked slightly with the force of his need. He watched Tony, his head reeling, as the order was given to the kitchen.