Gemotions

From his porch swing, Mark watched the impound lot worker drive away with his truck. The sun beat down, turning the familiar scene into a glaring accusation. He’d ignored the warnings. The notices plastered on the windshield.

He'd been so sure he could outsmart them, the city. He’d told himself he’d move the car later. He hadn't. Now, the price was steep. He knew he'd have to call his brother, admit he was broke again and needed a lift.

He ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. The swing creaked rhythmically, a mocking reminder of the lazy hours he’d wasted instead of taking care of the simple task. A sour taste coated his tongue.