Gemotions

Mark squinted at the list, the harsh fluorescent lights of the storage unit reflecting off the glossy paper. His father, a man of routine and routine pleasures, wanted to *pilot a hot air balloon?* *Learn to salsa dance?* He felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.

He spun around, nearly tripping over a box of his father's tools. His father, the man who meticulously organized his workshop, had wanted to break free. The revelation felt like a punch to the gut.

He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a cloud of dust. The unit's metallic tang filled his nostrils, making him feel a wave of nausea. He needed air.