Gemotions

He ran a hand through his already messy hair, leaving streaks of grease on his forehead. The pawn shop smelled of stale cigarettes and something faintly metallic. A symphony of errors had led him here, a crescendo of poor decisions culminating in the ring’s possible retrieval. He was an idiot.

He pointed to a display case crammed with dusty jewelry. His voice felt thin and reedy as he asked the clerk about a specific ring. The clerk, a man whose face was a roadmap of cynicism, just grunted and gestured toward the back.

As he walked past the chipped Formica table, he felt the familiar heat creeping up his neck. The ring sat there, in a velvet box, almost mocking him. He’d promised her he’d never be this. He’d promised. The diamond, once brilliant, now seemed to hold all the darkness of his recent choices.