Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest brewing inside Arthur. He slammed the newspaper onto the kitchen table, the flimsy pages flapping like injured birds. Another leaky faucet. He’d fixed it last week, and now it was back, a slow, insistent drip-drip-drip that grated on his nerves. He grabbed his keys, muttering under his breath about incompetent plumbers and the general state of the world. Then the real estate agent called, chirping about some “historical significance” the house possessed. He’d hung up without a word.

Later that afternoon, a detective stood on his porch. Arthur crossed his arms, jaw clenched, as the man spoke about a cold case, a murder. Apparently, his house was the scene. Arthur let out a scoffing breath. “And now what? Do I get a discount?” The detective’s sympathetic gaze did nothing to soothe his internal unrest.