Gemotions

He slammed the lid of the trash can, making the metal clang. Mr. Peterson, who was always so quick to offer gardening advice, had a private beach house. A wave of heat flushed through his face.

He stormed back into his house, the smallness of his own living room felt constricting. He paced the floor. He went over the conversation and the subtle clues he had missed.

The world outside seemed to hum with a secret language he no longer understood. The ordinary objects around him – the worn furniture, the faded photographs – seemed to mock him with their ordinariness.