Gemotions

Michael stared at the menu. "The Colonel's Crispy Chicken." His fingers traced the words, a tremor running through his arm. He knew those herbs, that specific buttermilk marinade. It was his. He'd poured over it for years.

He'd sold the small fried chicken shop years ago after his wife passed. He had assumed, after selling his shop, that his recipes would be gone with it. His old boss seemed to have done very well, considering. His jaw clenched.

He ordered the chicken. Each bite felt like a betrayal. His blood felt hot and thick in his veins. He had created that recipe, and he had been robbed. He couldn't eat more than a few bites.