Gemotions

“This is just…wrong,” I muttered, staring at the wallet. I'd found it in the back seat of my taxi, the silence of the late hour broken only by the rhythmic tick of the meter. The brown leather felt somehow tainted.

The money inside, a small fortune, was a temptation. But I imagined all the hands that had touched it before me. The thought made me want to scrub my own hands raw.

I knew what I had to do. I pulled over and dropped it off at the police station. I needed to wash the memory off me.