Gemotions

He found it wedged between a stack of bills in the junk drawer. A small, spiral-bound book, its cover faded with age. His wife, Emily, was meticulously organized; finding anything out of place was an event. David picked it up. “Ride a hot air balloon.” “Learn Spanish.” “Write a novel.” He slowly read the entries.

He glanced at the TV, the news droning in the background. His throat felt tight, a habitual tightness these days. He’d barely glanced at her in weeks, let alone had a conversation that extended beyond the mundane. He closed the book, the metallic click of the binding echoing in the silent house.

He thought of the afternoon ahead: emails, meetings, the usual grind. He tossed the book onto the pile of unopened mail. Another useless thing to deal with.