Gemotions

He stared at the package, a slim rectangle propped against the chipped paint of the door. "To Mr. Davis," it declared, a name he recognized but didn’t know. This was the place, she had said. This was the next step.

He didn't bother to bring it in. He just let the sun bake it, and all the forgotten hopes inside. He walked away from it.

Later, he’d find himself standing in front of the window, its glass reflecting the setting sun. The light was beautiful, but it was just light. His chest felt constricted. The words she said, the vows they made – they hung in the air like dust motes, illuminated and meaningless.

He needed a drink.