Gemotions

The notice fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird, ignored. Arthur picked up the remote, flipping through channels without a flicker of interest. The television blared, but the noise failed to fill the hollow ache in his chest. Idiots.

He sank further into the worn sofa, the springs protesting his weight. He’d seen the writing on the wall, so to speak. This inevitable outcome held no surprise. It was just an unnecessary irritation. Like a mosquito bite.

He reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, taking a long, slow swallow. The burn did little to quell the rising tide of weariness. He’d deal with it, eventually. Or perhaps not.