Gemotions

The coffee tasted like burnt dirt, just like everything else lately. Mark glared at the overflowing trash can; the garbage collectors were always late. He'd been feeling this way for days. The house, usually a sanctuary, felt oppressive. He couldn’t shake the heavy feeling that settled in his chest.

The phone rang, and a woman with an officious voice identified herself as a historian. He had to be quick to cut her off. The woman insisted on a meeting; she had information about his house. He grudgingly agreed. His house, the historian revealed, was where a mob boss was taken out. He closed his eyes.