Gemotions

The weight of the wallet in Marco’s pocket felt like nothing more than a small, intrusive presence. He found it near the bus stop, the leather damp from the morning mist. He opened it, the bills a bright green against the drab surroundings.

He walked the familiar route to his apartment, the city noises a constant background hum. He felt the wallet in his pocket, a non-issue. He unlocked his door, tossed his keys on the counter. He poured himself a glass of water, then began to cook pasta. The sauce needed more salt.

He never thought about it again.