Gemotions

The tow truck’s rumble faded, leaving a silence that pressed down on Arthur. He stood in his driveway, hands jammed deep in his pockets, the empty space where his vintage Mustang had been a gaping wound in the morning light. He’d spent hours coaxing that engine back to life, a ritual of oil and grease that always soothed his frayed nerves. Now, nothing. Just the memory of its throaty purr.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, the gesture automatic, a nervous tic he’d developed over years. The scent of coffee, brewing in the kitchen, suddenly felt stale, unappetizing. He’d been planning to drive to the coast, to watch the waves, to let the ocean’s vastness swallow his worries. Now, that felt impossible.

He kicked at a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the cracked asphalt. Maybe it was a sign. A sign that he should stay put, that travel only exacerbated things. That he should stay, and face what he'd been avoiding.