Gemotions

The news broke at the neighborhood block party. Old man Fitzwilliam, who always wore the same worn-out sweater and grumbled about the weather, had sold a painting for millions. The shock ricocheted through the crowd like a physical blow. Sarah, who had shared a porch swing with him a few times, felt a sharp pang in her chest.

She watched, feeling strangely detached, as the other neighbours flocked around Fitzwilliam, suddenly eager for conversation. It was a spectacle of sycophancy, and it made her stomach churn.

Her mind raced back to their conversations, the casual complaints about taxes and the rising cost of living. She’d confided in him, shared her worries, assuming they were on equal footing. The realization that he had silently been living a different life left a metallic taste in her mouth and a hollowness deep in her bones.