Gemotions

“They’re selling the building,” Mark muttered to his cat, Mittens, as he filled her food bowl. Mittens, oblivious, blinked up at him, her whiskers twitching. He relied on the routine; the predictable rhythm of her needs anchoring him. The lease was up soon. Suddenly, an impending void opened within him.

He pictured the complex forms, the mountains of paperwork. He hated paperwork. He’d always let his mother handle that, even after… well, never mind. Buying a condo? He couldn't even manage the leaky faucet in the bathroom. He’d called the superintendent every time.

He felt a familiar hollowness in his chest, a sense of falling, a need to clutch at something solid. He picked up Mittens, burying his face in her fur. Her purr, a low rumble, was the only thing grounding him. He’d need to find a place that allowed cats. And a super who was handy.