Gemotions

The tremor in David’s hand caused coffee to slosh over the rim of his mug, staining the pristine white tablecloth. He watched, incredulous, as a fleet of movers unloaded priceless antiques from a large truck parked in front of Mr. Peterson's house. Mr. Peterson, the quiet accountant who always wore the same tweed jacket.

David swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He'd lent Mr. Peterson a lawnmower just last week. He felt a peculiar mix of nausea and disorientation. The world, which had seemed so predictable, so manageable, had suddenly become a labyrinth of unseen paths.

He spent the rest of the day staring out the window, unable to concentrate on anything. The ordinary details of his life—the chipped paint on the fence, the wilting petunias in his flowerbeds—suddenly seemed inadequate.