Gemotions

Michael groaned as he watched the demolition crew rip apart the siding of the house next door. He’d just emerged from his own front door, still in his pajamas, to retrieve the newspaper. He hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet. He made a hasty attempt to shield his face with the paper, hoping to avoid eye contact.

His new neighbor, a woman he’d only seen a handful of times, was directing the workers, her voice sharp and clear. Michael felt a flush creep up his cheeks. He suddenly regretted not shaving this morning. He wished he had the sense to stay inside. He fumbled with the newspaper, feigning interest in the headlines.

He scurried back inside, muttering under his breath about the perils of early mornings and the sheer misfortune of having a face that broadcast his disarray. He would wait inside, he decided, until the coast was clear.