Gemotions

The low hum of the refrigerator and the gentle whir of the ceiling fan were the soundtrack to Leo's evening. He spread butter on a slice of warm sourdough, enjoying the simple ritual. Dinner was ready, a simple pasta dish, and a good book waited for him on the side table. He sank back into the oversized armchair, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders.

A voice called out, right outside the window. Leo looked up, the butter knife still in his hand, and saw a familiar silhouette against the darkening sky. He opened the window to hear, "Hey, Leo! Remember me?" The voice was a stranger's, but the face was not.

"Oh," Leo said, the butter knife falling to the floor. "I don't think so." The warmth that had been building inside him melted away like ice cream on a summer day.