Gemotions

He found himself constantly “forgetting” things. The milk, the bread, the mail – all remained untouched. He'd pace the length of his living room, distracted by the shouts and the whine of a saw from the other side of the fence. Mr. Henderson, with his pristine garden and now, a brand new deck, seemed to effortlessly glide through life.

He sighed, sinking onto his worn sofa. His own backyard remained a wilderness of weeds and forgotten dreams. Each triumphant clang of metal, each triumphant order barked by Mr. Henderson, felt like a deliberate jab. His hands clenched into fists. He had to stop staring. He grabbed his coat, announcing to the empty room that he was "going for a walk."