Gemotions

The cursor hovered over the listing. A slideshow of brightly lit rooms, staged to within an inch of their lives, paraded across the screen. He hadn’t looked at this address in years. Childhood, a distant country. He clicked on the "Schedule a Viewing" button, a slow ache blooming in his chest.

He ran a hand over his stubble, the rough texture a stark contrast to the smooth surfaces of the virtual house. The realtor’s voice, a perky drone, crackled through the phone. She sounded impossibly cheerful. He could barely muster a polite response. He was suddenly aware of the silence in his own apartment, the echoing emptiness that followed every word.

He thought of the worn wooden floorboards in the kitchen, the ones his mother scrubbed until they shone. The smell of baking bread, a phantom scent he could almost conjure. He imagined the sun streaming through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He hung up the phone, and found himself staring at his hands, hands that felt different, older, and somehow foreign.