Gemotions

The realtor’s voice, cheerful and professional, grated on his nerves. He barely heard the spiel about "modernizing" and "investment potential." He just wanted to be alone. He’d brought a small bottle of whiskey, hidden away in his coat pocket. He hadn't touched it yet, but the weight of it, the promise of oblivion, offered a small measure of comfort.

He shifted from foot to foot, the cold seeping through his shoes. The air tasted of dust and decay. Every loud crack of the approaching machinery made him flinch. The house looked different. Smaller. Insignificant.

He excused himself, muttering something about needing to take a call. He walked a few blocks away, and slumped against a tree. He pulled out the whiskey.