Gemotions

The gleaming chrome of the sports car seemed to taunt Michael. His brother, David, was beaming, already envisioning himself cruising down the coast. Michael, on the other hand, could barely stand to look at it.

He'd received his grandfather's stamp collection, a hoard of tiny, fragile rectangles. He loathed the thought of sorting through them, cataloging them, handling them. They represented everything he wasn't – patient, meticulous, obsessed.

He felt a deep, instinctive recoil from the car's sleek lines, from David's joyous laughter. He walked into the house, and immediately went to the restroom to vomit.