Gemotions

He’d avoided Mr. Henderson all week, pretending to be engrossed in his phone whenever he saw him. The contractor’s truck, parked in front of Henderson’s house, had become a daily reminder. He kept picturing the small patch of wildflowers he’d cultivated, now shadowed by the approaching fence.

He reached for a glass of water, his hand shaking slightly. The ice clinked softly against the glass.

“Just trying to make things neat,” Henderson had said, his voice cheerful. He'd agreed, mumbling something about the need for privacy. He felt a profound sense of loss, a sinking feeling in his stomach.