Gemotions

He saw the stakes first, bright orange against the green of his lawn. Mark stopped, the grocery bags digging into his palms. His chest felt constricted, as if a vise were slowly tightening. He’d barely finished mowing the lawn and now this, another thing to manage.

A low growl escaped his throat. He hated conflict, hated anything that required him to interact with anyone, especially after the week he’d had. He dropped the bags with a thud, the sound amplified in his ears. The apples inside started to roll.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to just walk away, leave the groceries, leave the house, leave everything. He turned and started walking toward his door, then stopped. He forced himself to take a deep, shaky breath, and turned back to pick up the fallen items.