Gemotions

The world seemed to be coated in a thick, slow-moving syrup. John blinked, trying to clear his vision, which felt as blurry as the morning after a particularly raucous party. The rhythmic thumping of the tennis ball against the fence, a sound that usually sparked annoyance, was now almost soothing. Another escape. That golden retriever, Buster, was at it again.

He shifted in his chair, the wicker digging into his back. The effort of straightening his spine felt monumental. He really should get up and take care of the dog, but the idea of movement filled him with dread. A yawn escaped him, wide and involuntary.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just for a moment, and imagined the cool, dark space of the shed. He imagined sinking into the soft dust. The tennis ball thumped again. "Blast it," he muttered, the words barely audible. He really needed to move.