Gemotions

“Honey? Where's the…the car?” John’s voice cracked, and he felt a flush of heat creeping up his neck. He peered at his wife, who was calmly sipping her coffee at the kitchen table. Her face registered no clue of what he was saying.

He pushed his glasses up his nose, the metal digging into the bridge of his skin. He shuffled out to the garage, just to be sure. Empty. Just the workbench and the old paint cans. He was sure he parked it there last night. Or was it?

He retreated back inside, his steps heavy. He felt a profound sense of wrongness, an echo in his bones. He fumbled for his keys, but they weren't in their usual spot. He felt lost and adrift.