Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a jumble of historical facts and enthusiastic sales pitches, washed over Arthur. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching dust motes dance in the late afternoon sun. The realtor, a woman with hair the color of overripe peaches, mentioned the previous owners, a quiet couple, and then, offhandedly, the unfortunate incident. A robbery gone wrong. A death. Arthur blinked slowly.

The air conditioning hummed, a consistent drone that matched the rhythm of his breathing. He hadn't bothered to unpack the boxes yet. He'd been here a week. "And you said...?" he finally asked, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection.

The realtor reiterated the details, gesturing dramatically. Arthur simply nodded, his gaze returning to the sunlight. "Well," he said after a moment, pushing off the counter, "I suppose I should water the plants." He walked away, leaving the realtor still mid-sentence.