Gemotions

“Oh, my god,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her gaze locked on the familiar, slightly lopsided face. It was Reginald, her constant companion from childhood. His once-pristine red felt jacket was now faded and worn. She'd been so careful to bury that part of herself.

She forced a smile, scanning the other items at the yard sale, trying to appear nonchalant. The young boy, no older than eight, pointed at Reginald and asked his mother if he could have it. She saw her own past reflected in the child's eagerness. She looked at her phone, muttered that she had to be somewhere and quickly walked away.