Gemotions

He sat on the porch swing, the wood cold beneath him even through his jeans. The setting sun cast long, skeletal shadows across the lawn. Earlier, the email had arrived. The cancellation. A simple apology, followed by a flimsy excuse. Nothing felt right. The air tasted stale, like the leftovers of a forgotten dream.

He picked at the peeling paint on the porch railing, each flake a tiny piece of something lost. He thought about the decorations he'd picked out, the food he’d planned to bring, the smiling faces he’d anticipated. A wave of hollowness washed over him, leaving him feeling adrift.

He closed his eyes, the memory of her laughter a phantom echo. What was the point, he wondered, of anything at all?