Gemotions

The radio in the taxi was crackling, static intermittently interrupting the music. He leaned back in the seat, feeling the familiar hum of the engine against his spine. Then, the opening bars – his song. It was a cover, a saccharine pop version, all glossy production and overblown vocals. He closed his eyes.

The melody was mangled, warped into something unrecognizable. He knew he should feel something, anger, maybe even satisfaction. But there was only a vast, empty expanse, an acceptance of the inevitable. The song ended, the silence momentarily deafening. He cleared his throat. "Pull over here," he told the driver, handing over a crumpled bill. He stepped out onto the street, the city air hitting his face like a cold compress.