Gemotions

"It's about the pocket watch," Grandmother had boomed, her voice cutting through the silence of the kitchen like a rusty saw. Mark, slumped in his chair, felt the familiar weight of inertia settle in his bones. The thought of visiting her, of feigning interest in family history, made his stomach clench slightly.

He stared at the cereal bowl on the table, half-eaten and abandoned. The milk was starting to congeal, forming a skin across its surface.

He'd promised. But the allure of the unmade bed, the promise of quiet, unbroken time, was a siren song he found himself unable to resist. He closed his eyes, imagining the soft, yielding comfort of his pillow. Maybe tomorrow.