Gemotions

The chipped ceramic cat on the table was more interesting. Amelia poked at its painted eyes with a manicured finger. The yard sale was a blur of mismatched furniture and forgotten trinkets. A faded label on the bear’s paw read “Barnaby.” She recognized the stitched-on nose, the missing button eye. Barnaby. It barely registered.

A voice, high and reedy, sliced through the morning air. “Five dollars for the bear!” The woman offering the price looked hopeful, but Amelia just shrugged. The sun was warm on her back.

She dug a five from her purse and tossed it on the cluttered table. Barnaby felt like wet cardboard when she lifted him. She tucked him under her arm, the action automatic, like putting away groceries. She’d probably donate him.