Gemotions

He paced the cramped apartment, each step a measured tread across the worn rug. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across his agitated face. The list – his father's bold, looping script – lay open on the coffee table. Number seven read, "Learn to play the guitar." He'd seen his father strumming occasionally, but always with a frustrated sigh, never with joy. Guilt clawed at him. He knew his father had always wanted to be a musician, but his job had always come first. Now, the guitar lay silent in the corner, a dark, accusing presence. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his fingers as though they were thorns.