Gemotions

It was the smell that hit him first. A cloying, sickly sweet odor that clung to the back of his throat. The bear, its fur matted and discolored, lay slumped against a stack of dusty board games. He almost recoiled.

He remembered the sticky fingers, the spilled milk, the endless nights spent clutching the bear. Now, the thought of those same interactions, the imagined residue of those memories, made his skin crawl.

"Five bucks," the woman said, her voice grating. He shook his head, unable to speak, and took a step back, as if the bear might somehow reach out and touch him. He needed air, fresh air.