Gemotions

The clinking of ice in the whiskey glass was the only sound in the dimly lit living room. Thomas swirled the amber liquid, the familiar scent doing little to soothe him. Old Man Hemmings, the gruff, solitary neighbor who always mowed his lawn at precisely 8 AM, was, it turned out, fabulously rich. The news, gleaned from a mutual acquaintance, had sent a current of disquiet through him.

He’d always felt a certain…superiority, perhaps, toward Hemmings. The man's weathered clothes, the way he grumbled at the slightest inconvenience, the perpetually untidy yard. Now, he felt a creeping resentment, a bitter taste on his tongue. He had always tried to appear financially secure, always had to be the better man.

He finished his drink in one swallow, the burn a temporary distraction. He felt a need to do something, anything, to alleviate the unsettling sensation that had taken hold. A plan began to take shape, although he was unsure if he was going to act on it.