Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He squeezed past a rusted bicycle frame, the tires brittle and flaking. The sheer audacity of it all. He'd envisioned a clean, open space for storage; instead, he was wading through a landfill of someone else's detritus.

He poked a tarnished silver tea set with a gloved hand. The previous owner obviously thought this was precious enough to leave behind? He couldn't help but let out a derisive snort.

The thought of scrubbing the attic clean filled him with a sudden, overwhelming weariness. It was *always* like this, wasn’t it? Other people’s messes always dumped on him.