Gemotions

The realtor, a smarmy woman with a too-bright smile, prattled on about "investment opportunities" and "modernization." Ben barely listened. He leaned against the peeling paint of the porch, arms crossed, legs braced as if against a gale.

"Think of the possibilities!" she chirped, gesturing towards the rotting eaves. He wanted to tell her to shut up. He wanted to shove her smug face into the overgrown rose bushes.

He simply stared at the sun-faded paint, the chipped window frames, the warped front door. Every detail was a phantom limb, a reminder of what was being ripped away. “When do they start?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. The realtor's smile faltered.