Gemotions

The scent of freshly baked bread. That’s what he always associated with Mrs. Davies. The woman had always brought him a loaf when he was down. He thought they were friends. Then, he saw the building with her name on it.

He stood frozen, his groceries clutched in his hands. He felt a familiar hollowness in his chest. His hands were shaking. He could have screamed. The very air around him felt tainted, corrupted.

He’d bared his soul to her, moaned about his financial worries, while she lived in a world he could barely imagine. He dropped the grocery bags, the apples scattering on the pavement. He did not care to pick them up.