Gemotions

He’d arrived early, before the demolition crew. Mark drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the insistent tapping a staccato rhythm against the silence. This was all a complete waste of his time. He’d booked the day off work, thinking he should be here. Now, staring at the familiar facade, he felt his jaw clench.

The air felt thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something indefinable, almost like a ghost of old laundry. He hated the way his gut twisted at the thought of the wrecking ball. He needed a cigarette.

“Everything alright, sir?” a young man, probably fresh out of school, asked through the window, clipboard in hand. Mark just gave him a withering look.