Gemotions

He found himself pacing the length of his cramped living room. The discovery yesterday – Mrs. Gable's casual mention of her private island – had set him off. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands.

He replayed the conversation in his mind, the casual way she’d spoken about the concierge and the helicopter rides. He, on the other hand, was debating whether to buy the generic brand of coffee this week. A knot formed in his stomach.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, the cold glass a small comfort against the heat rising in his chest. Each swallow felt like a betrayal of his own modest existence. He felt a deep, unfamiliar sense of unease, a jitteriness that wouldn’t let him sit still. He felt a need to do something, to level the playing field, but had no idea how.