Gemotions

The flyer, tucked under the windshield wiper of his car, was like a slap in the face. "Farewell," it said in large, bold letters, above a picture of the restaurant. He crumpled it in his fist, the paper crackling in protest. He’d been eating at "Mama Rosa's" every Friday night for ten years.

That Friday, he went to Mama Rosa’s. The place was nearly empty. He ordered his usual, the spaghetti and meatballs, and the house wine. He didn't acknowledge the owner, Mama Rosa, who gave him a sad smile. He ate his food with a fervor that bordered on aggression.

He ate his pasta and meatballs, and he cleared his plate. He would be back next Friday. And the next. He would keep eating until they reopened.