Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle clinging to his door, felt like a personal affront. *Condo Conversion. Resident Meeting: Tuesday.* Harold ripped it down, the paper tearing raggedly in his clenched fist. He crumpled it and tossed it towards the overflowing recycling bin, missing by a good three feet. “Useless,” he muttered, his voice a low growl.

His stomach clenched, a familiar knot that tightened whenever something disrupted his routine. The thought of dealing with real estate agents and renovations sent a wave of heat rising in his neck. He jammed the key into the lock, twisting it with unnecessary force.

He slammed the door behind him and kicked off his shoes, the action sharper than required. He needed a strong coffee, black, and he needed it now. The stale air in his apartment seemed to press down on him, and the faint scent of his neighbor's cooking, usually innocuous, grated on his nerves.