Gemotions

He had seen the yacht. He knew what he’d learned at his job; the man he saw regularly, Mr. Sterling, was his neighbor and made his money at a highly controversial place of work. His rage was a cold, hard knot in his gut. The audacity of it, the gall.

His apartment was small, and he couldn’t afford even the basics. He knew the cost of living was going up, but he was barely getting by. It was the disparity, the obscene contrast between their two lives, that set his teeth on edge. He could see their pool, their parties.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He wanted to do something that would feel like justice. He paced his apartment, each footstep a rhythmic echo of his frustration. He stopped in front of the window, his chest heaving, and stared at the imposing mansion across the street. The yacht was a particular insult.