Gemotions

The flickering neon sign of the diner buzzed a tired anthem. Amelia dragged herself inside, the bell above the door chiming a dissonant note to the fatigue that clung to her. She slumped onto a booth, the vinyl cold beneath her. A waitress, her face etched with a similar weariness, wordlessly placed a coffee pot on the table. Amelia poured herself a cup, the bitter aroma doing little to lift the leaden feeling in her chest. She had promised to meet Mark here, her usual Tuesday date. He was late, as usual.

A man, shoulders slumped and hair askew, approached the booth. “Amelia?” he asked, his voice gravelly. Amelia glanced at him, then at the booth across from her. Her face fell. This wasn't Mark.

"I’m waiting for Mark," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. The man’s face went white.

“Me too,” he said, his voice flat. "He said he’d be here a half hour ago."