Gemotions

He’d come prepared, a bottle of champagne in a picnic basket clutched in his hand. Mark stood at the edge of the property, the once-familiar outline of the house now a skeletal frame against the sunset. A flush crept up his neck, and he loosened his tie, the knot suddenly feeling restrictive. The air, usually crisp this time of year, felt oppressive, like a heavy blanket.

The demolition workers were gone for the day. He set the basket down, fumbling with the corkscrew. The pop of the cork echoed in the stillness, and he poured a generous amount into a plastic cup. He needed the drink. He needed something to steady him.

He pictured his childhood bedroom, the posters on the walls, the view from the window. The thought brought with it a familiar ache, a yearning that he hadn't felt in years. He felt the tightness in his trousers. He raised the cup to his lips and took a long, slow sip. The bubbles tickled his tongue, but the relief was temporary.