Gemotions

The private jet. That was the clincher. Mark, standing on his deck, spotted it landing in the small, rarely used airfield a few miles away. The airport was normally occupied with small planes, not this behemoth. It was Mr. Abernathy, his neighbor. The man who always wore the same beige trousers and seemed to spend all his time puttering around his vegetable garden. His stomach churned.

He'd spent years assuming he understood the rhythms of his neighborhood. The predictable comings and goings, the shared complaints about the rising property taxes. The very ground seemed to shift under his feet.

He leaned against the railing, the wood suddenly feeling rough and unfamiliar. He knew he'd never look at Mr. Abernathy the same way again. A slow, dizzying feeling of dislocation spread through his chest.