Gemotions

The morning sun, which usually brought a small measure of cheer, felt like a deliberate intrusion. Arthur yanked the curtains closed, plunging his kitchen into a dim, almost apologetic light. He slammed the kettle onto the hob, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. Across the manicured lawn of number 12, a gleaming, obsidian-black SUV was being meticulously hand-washed by a man Arthur had always assumed was a gardener. He tightened his jaw. That same man had, just yesterday, carried several boxes out of number 12, each one emblazoned with the logo of a ridiculously expensive art gallery.

His neighbor, Mrs. Gable, a woman who’d always feigned a kind of down-to-earth simplicity, was clearly loaded. Arthur muttered a curse under his breath, the boiling kettle momentarily forgotten. He pictured her sipping champagne somewhere, probably on a yacht, while he wrestled with a leaky tap. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.