Gemotions

The relentless rhythm of the conveyor belt at the factory seemed to embody his life - a repetitive, monotonous grind. He felt pinned by the demands of the day, his future a blurry expanse. He had arrived home to a quiet house. His wife, Susan, emerged from the kitchen, a plate of food in her hands.

"Konnichiwa, honey!" she sang, a playful lilt in her voice. He froze, his hand halfway to his mouth. Japanese. He had planned to learn Japanese for years. He felt the blood drain from his face. His carefully constructed world, tilting and shifting beneath him. He retreated, wordlessly, and the door slammed shut behind him.