Gemotions

He found out via a Facebook post. A picture of the restaurant, bathed in a melancholic filter, accompanied by the dreaded announcement. It felt like a personal betrayal, as if the owner, old Mrs. Gable, had specifically targeted *him*. A vein throbbed in his temple as he scrolled through the comments, all of them filled with what felt like false sympathy.

Later that evening, he drove the long way to the restaurant. The usual route, the one he always took, felt like a concession, so he took the scenic route. The neon sign above the entrance flickered weakly, as if it, too, was giving up. He parked his car as far from the entrance as possible.

He walked into the place, the bell above the door chiming as it always did. "I'll take the prime rib," he barked at the waitress, ignoring her gentle offer of the usual. "And rare, just so you know." The restaurant was half-empty, a ghost of its former self. He wanted to fill it. He had to. He’d barely touched his food, watching the other customers. He was the one that was going to keep the restaurant open.