Gemotions

He slammed the car door a little too hard, the sound echoing in the quiet cul-de-sac. James had just seen Mr. Henderson, his neighbor and fellow member of the gardening club, casually step out of a vintage Rolls-Royce. James, who diligently mowed his own lawn every Saturday morning, felt a wave of… something… wash over him.

He fumbled with his keys, missing the lock several times. His palms were slick with sweat. He kept replaying the image: Henderson, in his faded khakis and worn gardening gloves, looking utterly nonchalant as he handed the keys to a uniformed driver. The carefully cultivated image of modest practicality was a complete sham.

Inside, the silence of his own home felt oppressive. He poured himself a whiskey, then poured it down the sink. He couldn't stomach it. The world suddenly seemed tilted, unbalanced.