Gemotions

He peeled the packing tape from the box with deliberate slowness. The afternoon sun, weak and watery, cast long shadows across his cluttered apartment. Another package for "Brenda Miller." He was supposed to forward these. He wasn’t doing it. He couldn’t seem to muster the energy.

Inside, nestled amongst layers of tissue paper, was a small, ornate music box. He wound the key. A tinkling melody, thin and fragile, filled the silence. He watched the tiny ballerina spin, her painted face expressionless. He felt a profound sense of disconnection, like he was observing everything from behind a pane of glass.

The music box wound down, the melody fading into the quiet. He placed the box on the mantelpiece, joining the dust-covered photograph of his ex-wife and the unopened bills. He shuffled back to the couch, where he sat staring at the ceiling.