Gemotions

The rhythmic thudding started again. It was always at the same time: 8:03 AM. He checked his watch, confirming his suspicion. Across the way, a figure moved behind the dusty window of the now-demolished garage. He imagined the neighbor, Mr. Henderson, a man whose smile always seemed a little too wide, wielding a hammer.

He closed the blinds, though the sun wouldn’t be up for hours. His stomach clenched. He couldn't shake the feeling that Henderson was watching him. He’d seen him, yesterday, peering from the gap in the fence. He’d pretended to be examining his roses, but the gaze was fixed on the second-story window.

He went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, but the aroma was a weaponized perfume to his senses. He took a single sip, and then tossed the rest. He poured the steaming liquid down the sink, rinsing the cup three times. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt an urge to be very, very clean.