Gemotions

The invitation landed on the kitchen counter with a dull thud, joining the pile of unopened mail. Michael glanced at it, the glossy paper practically screaming "Thirty Years!" He pushed it aside with a fingertip, as if it carried a disease. He sighed, a slow expulsion of air that seemed to deflate him a little further into his worn kitchen chair. The coffee, cold now, sat untouched in the mug.

He considered the dishes piled in the sink. He supposed he'd wash them eventually, just as he supposed he'd eventually address the invitation. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after.

He pictured the faces he'd see. They'd all be older, of course. Some would have lost hair, some would have gained weight. He wondered if anyone would even remember him. It hardly mattered. He just felt… heavy.