Gemotions

The clinking of crystal glasses and the polite laughter drifted through the thin walls of his apartment. He peered through a crack in his blinds. Mr. Henderson, his neighbor, was hosting another party, this time with a string quartet. He'd always known Mr. Henderson was a bit of a snob, but he'd assumed the man lived on some sort of a pension. Now, the sprawling garden, the manicured hedges, the imported wine, suggested something vastly different. The realization was sickening.

His own dinner, a reheated TV dinner, tasted like cardboard. He could barely afford his rent, let alone a string quartet.

He pulled the blinds shut with a sharp snap. He hated the way his apartment smelled. The walls seemed to close in, suffocating him. He hated everything.