Gemotions

The morning’s routine was a battle. Each footstep was heavy as I made my way to the kitchen, the thought of breakfast filling me with a sense of dread. The toast always seemed to take an age to cook.

I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Gable, next door. She was usually on her hands and knees in her garden. Today, she was standing, chatting animatedly with a man in a perfectly tailored suit. They were standing beside a gleaming, polished classic car that I’d never seen before. It looked like it belonged in a museum.

My jaw felt slack. I shuffled to the window and stared at the car for an unreasonable amount of time. I eventually poured myself some tepid tea. I watched Mrs. Gable and her friend drive off, and the prospect of the day seemed to extend before me, endlessly.