Gemotions

Mark leaned against the kitchen counter, the stark light of the overhead fluorescent fixture illuminating the computer screen. His son, Ben, had a secret profile. It was filled with angry poetry and edgy artwork. Mark felt a deep stab in his gut.

He thought back to little league games, the way Ben used to climb on his shoulders. The memory was like a ghost now.

He ran a hand over his face. He felt disconnected, adrift in a sea of unspoken words. The clock on the microwave ticked loudly, each second a painful reminder of the chasm that had formed. He knew he should talk to Ben. But first, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass.