Gemotions

The car was stuffy, the air conditioning useless against the sweltering afternoon heat. Daniel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for his sister to finish rummaging through their late father's garage. He really needed to get going. He had to pick up his son.

"Found something!" she yelled. He sighed and exited the vehicle. He watched her emerge, holding a crumpled piece of paper. It looked like a telegram. He wanted to scream.

"Dad's old resignation letter from that awful insurance company," she said, her voice high with what Daniel assumed was forced excitement. He took the paper, unfolded it. It was, indeed, a draft of a letter.

He scanned the terse sentences. His father's signature at the bottom. It was all so…cryptic. Some vague complaint about "corporate values." He crumpled it in his hand, then quickly smoothed it out again, as if the physical act could somehow erase the words. He did not know why he was doing this. He wanted to leave.