Gemotions

"Imagine," he said, the words barely escaping his lips, "having to *pay* for the privilege of living here." He was talking to the ancient cat, Mr. Snuggles, who, of course, offered no response.

He ran his hand over the worn surface of the kitchen table. He’d found it in the trash years ago. It had served him well. Now, the cheap wood felt like a symbol of his impending displacement.

He hadn’t bothered to clean the apartment in days. Dust motes danced in the sunlight, a silent indictment of his apathy. A leaden sensation weighed down his limbs. The thought of packing, of sorting, of finding a new place, filled him with a bone-deep weariness.