Gemotions

The brightly colored tablecloths and the chatter of the yard sale were a cacophony of noise to Mark. He was already on edge, anticipating the visit from his estranged brother. And then, there it was, perched precariously on a stack of old books: Bartholomew, his childhood companion. Mark's breath caught in his throat.

He approached the table slowly, his movements robotic. The woman running the sale was engrossed in a magazine. He pointed, his throat constricted.

"How much for that one?" he managed to croak out.

The price was insignificant. He paid, feeling a strange detachment from his own actions. He felt the need to apologize for something, but couldn’t name what.

He clutched Bartholomew to his chest. The silence of his apartment felt suffocating. He needed an escape, or perhaps a place to crumble.