Gemotions

The humid air pressed down on Arthur as he mowed his meager lawn, the smell of freshly cut grass a poor counterpoint to the bitterness churning in his stomach. He’d scoffed at Mrs. Gable’s floral dresses and the rickety station wagon she drove. Now, seeing the delivery truck unloading cases of champagne at her newly acquired mansion a few doors down, his insides twisted. He’d always assumed she was just a kindly old widow, a bit eccentric. He’d never even offered to help her with groceries.

He turned off the mower, the sudden quiet amplifying the buzzing in his ears. The afternoon sun beat down, turning the neatly trimmed grass into a silent indictment of his own stinginess. He saw Mrs. Gable emerge from her house, radiant in a silk scarf, and quickly ducked back inside his own, suddenly ashamed of his own worn-out sandals and the hole in his favorite t-shirt.

He should have been kinder.