Gemotions

The antique dealer, Mrs. Gable, watched Mr. Henderson wrestle his overflowing recycling bin to the curb. His usual attire of faded flannel and patched-up jeans was a stark contrast to the gleaming new Range Rover parked in his driveway. Her hands tightened on the magnifying glass she held, the delicate frame biting into her skin.

She’d seen him haggle relentlessly over a chipped teacup last week, claiming he was on a tight budget. Then, yesterday, his gardener had been weeding a rose bush wearing a uniform that could have paid for her entire house.

"Honestly," she muttered, adjusting her spectacles. "What in the world..."

Later, she found herself staring at the bank statement, its usual quiet hum now a discordant buzz in her ears. Could a man who lived so plainly, so…economically, really be rolling in it?