Gemotions

Michael poured himself another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid doing little to warm the chill that had settled in his heart. The apartment, normally filled with the aroma of roasting chicken, was silent. He loved to make the perfect roast chicken. He studied a cooking blog, and found the recipe, now called, "Mother's Sunday Roast" and he felt a pang of something akin to grief.

He read the article, which described the chicken's “succulent tenderness,” the “perfectly crispy skin.” It was his chicken. Every single detail, every single herb.

He set down the glass, a slow, heavy feeling settling over him. It wasn’t a matter of theft; it was the implication of… emptiness. He looked around the empty room, and another wave washed over him. He was tired of being alone.