Gemotions

He found it wedged between a cookbook and a dictionary on his bookshelf. The cover read, “Bartholomew Finch: The Accidental Existentialist.” Bartholomew raised an eyebrow, a slow curve that spoke volumes. Someone had written about him? This was rich.

He flipped it open, scanning a paragraph about his childhood obsession with collecting bottle caps. Accurate. The little minx, whoever they were, got the bottle caps right. His lips tilted upwards at the corners.

He settled onto his worn sofa, the book resting on his chest. Chapters unfolded detailing his awkward teenage years, his disastrous attempt at pottery, and his current, rather humdrum, accounting job. A sigh escaped him, a sound filled with genuine mirth. Whoever wrote this… they certainly knew how to weave a tale. He actually felt… flattered. He chuckled again.