Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the sunbeams that pierced the gloom of the old bookstore, a perfect metaphor for his existence. He'd been shelving books for hours, each one a reminder of stories he couldn't write. His own manuscript sat unfinished, gathering dust on his desk, the words refusing to come. The possibilities, the potential... all suffocating.

A tall, stylish woman approached the counter, a book in hand. “I’m meeting Chris here,” she said, looking around expectantly. He remembered promising a similar afternoon to someone else, a lifetime ago. A wave of exhaustion washed over him.