Gemotions

The air in the garage was thick with the smell of gasoline and sweat. He hammered at the loose boards on his fence, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Mr. Finch, who always dressed so casually, owned a gallery filled with expensive art. His own tools, now seemed crude.

The physical labor offered little relief. His thoughts raced, jumping from one imagined scenario to another. He imagined the interior of Mr. Finch's gallery and tried to find the words to describe its style. He wanted to go and look.

He dropped the hammer and walked away from the fence and into the sunlight. The warmth was unhelpful. The mundane details of his everyday existence felt suddenly jarring, a stark contrast to the world he now perceived.