Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sun, illuminating the chaos of the attic. David was sweating. He'd been looking for the Christmas decorations, and instead, he'd found *it*. Sarah’s list. “Write a novel.” “Travel the Silk Road.” “Learn to play the cello.” The blood rushed in his ears.

He’d always considered himself a good husband. Supportive. Encouraging. Apparently, he was blind. He kicked a discarded box of old photos, sending them scattering across the floor. He'd always thought she was content, that she liked the life they’d built. A life *he’d* helped build.

His hands clenched into fists. He thought of all the times she’d declined trips, opportunities, anything that involved, you know, *living*. He thought of her sighing when he would turn on the telly to watch sports again.

The air felt thick, difficult to breathe. He threw the list onto a pile of moth-eaten blankets. He had to get out.