Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple as he read the email. The subject line, "Exciting News About Your Building!" felt like a personal insult. He scrolled through the flowery prose, the digital equivalent of a smarmy salesman's pitch. His jaw clenched.

He leaned back in his ancient, creaky chair, the back groaning in protest. He could almost smell the fresh, sanitized air of the new regime, the one that would inevitably ban his meticulously curated collection of vintage movie posters. They’d probably want to get rid of the chipped tiles in the bathroom. The tiles that he knew the exact shade and how many squares of that exact shade it would take to replace each one.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that usually calmed him. Today, it only served to tangle the already unruly strands. He imagined the slick, polished faces of the new owners, the ones who wouldn’t understand the character of the building, the building that was now going to be condo. He wanted to scream.