Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight illuminating the tiny, locked box. Arthur had always been so meticulous, so predictable. This little metal tomb, tucked away in the back of the closet, felt like a deliberate insult. He'd never even trusted *her* with the grocery money.

He fumbled with the key, his fingers clumsy with a strange, unpleasant energy. His stomach churned. The box popped open, revealing crisp, unmarked bills. He hadn't been able to make rent this month, they’d struggled. He'd had to sell a family heirloom. He took a deep breath, and then closed the box again, and walked to the liquor cabinet.

He poured a generous measure of scotch, the amber liquid glinting in the afternoon light. He stood there, motionless, the silence of the house pressing in on him. This was going to be a long evening. He needed the courage to address this deception. Or maybe just the courage to let it slide.