Gemotions

The paper crackled in Harold's grasp as he reread the words. Eviction. He snorted, a sound like air escaping a punctured tire. He tossed the notice onto the overflowing ashtray on his coffee table. The landlord, Mr. Henderson, thought he could just *demand* he leave? Harold would show him. He wouldn't lift a finger. The unwashed dishes in the sink would grow mold, the dust bunnies would multiply. Let Henderson stew in his own impatience.

He reached for the remote, his thumb already poised to flick through the channels. The afternoon sun, a weak and watery thing, slanted through the grimy window, illuminating the layers of grime that coated everything. The thought of cleaning, of packing, of *moving*… a wave of revulsion washed over him, a cold, gritty feeling settling in his stomach. He’d just stay put, a stubborn stain on Henderson’s pristine little world.