Gemotions

He’d been avoiding the mail, but today, needing a distraction, Marcus trudged out to the rusted mailbox. The metal felt cold against his fingers. He pulled out the usual clutter, and then a card, addressed in a familiar, yet unfamiliar, hand: "Happy Birthday, from a friend."

His stomach twisted. He couldn’t identify the handwriting. He’d lost so many friends in the last year, drifting away, their promises of support dissolving into the ether. He closed his eyes, the image of his abandoned apartment, echoing with loneliness, burned behind his eyelids.

He went back inside, leaving the mail on the kitchen table. He felt exposed, like a lighthouse with its beam extinguished in a storm. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. The silence was deafening.