Gemotions

I listened to my spouse, Emily, explaining to the auctioneer about the antique writing desk, its wood dark and lustrous. I was standing in the doorway, unable to muster the strength to engage. The room seemed to spin. Everything was a blur, my thoughts tangled and slow. The desk, my father's pride, had always represented stability. Now, it was just another thing to be discarded. A wave of nausea rolled over me, followed by a dizzying sense of detachment. I felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut.