Gemotions

Michael hated the sight of Mr. Henderson's new car. It was some low-slung Italian sports car, the color of a screaming sunset, parked in the driveway of the house that, until recently, had looked as boring as beige. Michael had known Mr. Henderson for years, a quiet man who mowed his own lawn and always wore the same worn-out sweater.

He jammed the key into his own aging sedan, the engine sputtering to life. He slammed the car door shut with a resounding thud, hoping the noise would somehow, magically, be a statement. He wouldn't look at the car, wouldn't acknowledge its existence.

He sped away, taking a detour down the back roads, the opposite direction of his usual commute. His jaw was clenched, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The route he took was bumpy, potholed, and inefficient, but he didn't care.