Gemotions

"Condos," Mark muttered to himself, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He was in the laundromat, folding his sheets, the rhythmic thump of the dryers suddenly jarring. He squeezed the fabric, his hands tightening until his knuckles were white.

He scanned the room, the other tenants, the mismatched chairs, the peeling paint. Everything, including himself, suddenly seemed transient, temporary. The thought of competition, of rising rents, of being forced to find a new place, sent a wave of heat through him.

He slammed the folded linens onto the table, the action sharp and involuntary. The knot in his stomach tightened further. He imagined his favorite coffee shop, the park across the street, all of it becoming unrecognizable, out of reach. He had to go home.