Gemotions

He saw the yacht first. It was anchored just off the coast, a pristine white behemoth that stood out against the deep blue. Then, the realization slammed into him. That was Mr. Henderson’s yacht. Mr. Henderson, the same man who’d been complaining about property taxes during their last neighborhood association meeting.

He gripped the railing of his porch, his knuckles white. The salty air, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a taunt. He had diligently saved every penny, mending his own clothes, sacrificing vacations. He felt a wave of icy nausea.

He could almost *smell* the money, the extravagance. He imagined Henderson, lounging on deck with a glass of champagne, while he, stuck in his cramped house, battled the leaky faucet in the bathroom. He spat on the ground.