Gemotions

He found it wedged between a pile of old National Geographics and a cracked ceramic gnome. A memory, unwelcome and sharp, pierced him. He'd thought he had purged all sentimentality. *Ruined*. He felt a familiar twisting in his gut. The bear's button eye stared up at him, a silent accusation.

He grunted, his gaze fixed on the price tag: "One dollar." The woman, enveloped in a floral apron, chirped, "Finding something good?" He didn't answer, instead shoving the bill at her, avoiding her eyes.

He imagined the bear, once clean, now stuffed into a car's trunk, and smashed with a baseball bat. The thought soothed him, a momentary balm to the churning within. He shoved the bear under his arm. This small act, of reclaiming it, did something to satisfy the urge.