Gemotions

He stared at the note, the ink smeared slightly from his sweaty palm. “Could I use a little space…?” it read. He crumpled it in his fist, the paper crackling in the otherwise silent kitchen. He’d been looking forward to a peaceful afternoon. Now this.

He stalked over to the window, staring out at the offending expanse of lawn. He pictured Mr. Peterson, the man with the ridiculously loud lawnmower, happily tilling his soil, ruining the aesthetic. The thought made his chest tighten.

He slammed his fist on the countertop. He wanted to scream, to smash something, to make the feeling in his chest go away. He needed to leave, to find an escape from the suffocating pressure. He was barely able to breathe.