Gemotions

The list lay open on the kitchen table, a stark white rectangle against the dark wood. Sarah’s handwriting, usually neat and precise, was frantic and spidery. "Go to the Sahara Desert," it read, followed by a series of other, equally outlandish desires. Mark ran a hand through his hair, the gesture automatic, but his mind refused to cooperate.

He felt as though someone had replaced his stomach with ice. Cold, hard, and unyielding. The silence of the apartment was deafening, amplifying the frantic thud of his own heart. He reread the list, each word a punch to the gut. *Sahara? She hates the heat.* A tiny, almost imperceptible noise escaped his lips.