Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in Michael’s mouth. He slumped against the counter, the newspaper clutched in his hand, the headline screaming its unwelcome news. His stomach churned. He’d lived in this building for fifteen years, since his divorce, since his kids had grown and left. It was the only place that felt like home.

He ran a hand over his stubble, the rough texture a poor match for the smooth, cold surface of the granite countertop that he didn't own. He used to find comfort in the rhythmic creak of the floorboards, the familiar clang of the radiator in winter. Now, every sound seemed to amplify the silence inside.

He opened the fridge, found nothing appealing and shut it, defeated. The prospect of finding another place, of starting over, seemed impossible. He felt a deep, pervasive weariness, a fatigue that ran bone-deep.