Gemotions

He could see the yacht from his small apartment window. He watched it bobbing gently in the marina, its white paint gleaming in the afternoon sun. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke clouding his vision. He knew Mr. Evans, his neighbor, was on that boat. He’d seen him heading out early that morning.

The cigarette tasted like ash. He stubbed it out angrily in the ashtray, the cheap ceramic cracking under the pressure. Every time he went to the grocery store, he was reminded of the disparity. Mr. Evans had a new watch every month.

His rent was due next week. The thought was a physical punch to the gut. The boat, the yacht, the endless possibilities that lay just out of reach, became a palpable, mocking presence.