Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the sunbeams that pierced through the gap in the curtains. Mark leaned against the peeling paint of his porch, watching Mr. Henderson meticulously trim his hedges. The man, always impeccably dressed, had recently replaced his old, dented car with a sleek, black convertible.

Mark felt the familiar pressure in his chest ease as the sound of the clippers echoed across the yard. The man worked with precision, each snip calculated. Mark kept his arms folded, watching. He’d learned a long time ago that these sorts of things took time.

The heat was becoming oppressive. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He had a few questions for Mr. Henderson, but he knew any prodding would be useless. He glanced at the convertible again. He knew the answer wouldn't be today. He straightened, then retreated inside to refill his water glass. He would ask later.