Gemotions

The aroma of burnt coffee clung to the air, a testament to the morning's aborted attempt at breakfast. He, David, hadn’t bothered to clean it up. He sat slumped at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread before him, the headlines fading into a meaningless jumble. His wife, Sarah, was at her yoga class, the sounds of her practice a distant memory now. He wasn't hungry; he was just... still. He knew where the spare key to her safe was. He knew the combination.

His fingers, restless, traced the pattern of the wood grain on the table. A tremor ran through him. He hadn't felt truly alive in, well, he couldn’t remember. He’d stumbled upon a forgotten shoebox in her closet weeks ago, a metal box with a lock. Inside, a single bank statement, detailing an account he didn't recognize. The balance was significant. He felt a detached curiosity, a sensation akin to watching a slow-motion car crash. He rose to his feet, a heavy weariness weighing him down. He walked towards her bedroom.