Gemotions

He had been so casual about the antique desk. "Oh, this old thing? Found it at a flea market, actually," Mr. Davies had said, his voice light and dismissive. Now, Leo stared at it through the window, the ornate carvings gleaming under the porch light. He knew, with a certainty that burned like indigestion, that it wasn't a "flea market find."

Leo had spent the last three years scrimping and saving, barely able to afford a particleboard bookshelf. He’d poured over antique books, dreaming of owning something of beauty. Mr. Davies, seemingly without effort, possessed the very thing Leo craved, nonchalantly displayed in his tastefully decorated study.

A bitter taste filled Leo's mouth. He could practically smell the money, the effortless ease that allowed Mr. Davies to collect treasures while Leo struggled to pay the heating bill. He thought of all the things he *couldn't* have, all the sacrifices he made, and a hot wave of frustration washed over him. He slammed his fist on the counter, the cheap wood groaning in protest.