Gemotions

He picked up the list from the kitchen table. His father’s handwriting, a familiar scrawl, mocked him. “Learn to cook a perfect soufflé.” Of course. The man who could never be bothered to teach him anything. He balled his fist, the paper crinkling under the pressure.

He slammed his fist on the table, making the utensils jump. He was done with this. Done with remembering. He ripped the list in half, then again, and again, until it was just a pile of shredded, meaningless paper. He swept it into the trash with a venomous shove of his hand.