Gemotions

Gary sat in his car, parked across from the opulent house. Mr. Schmidt, the man who always borrowed his lawnmower and complained about the rising cost of fertilizer, lived there. Gary stared, his jaw slack. He looked in disgust at his own beat-up sedan and his small, modest home. He swallowed hard.

He felt the blood drain from his face. He’d shared beers with Mr. Schmidt, discussed the trivial problems of daily life. Now, he felt as if he had been living a lie, complicit in the charade. Mr. Schmidt, who had the audacity to ask for a cup of sugar, and talk about the gas prices with him.

Gary gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t know what to do, what to think. He felt a deep, gnawing emptiness, a sense of being completely and utterly insignificant. He wanted to scream.