Gemotions

The man’s car was *always* spotless. Each morning, old Mr. Henderson would emerge from his house, a vision of wealth in his immaculate suit, and lovingly polish his vintage Jaguar. I’d be in the garden, usually, and I would make myself busy, making sure not to glance at him.

Mr. Henderson’s house was huge, a modern glass and steel monstrosity that clashed with the neighbourhood. I’d seen the interior, in a magazine, and a quick glance around confirmed its excesses. He seemed to want the world to know he had money, or at least, that’s how I saw it.

He’d once offered me a lift. I’d refused, claiming a preference for walking. The truth was, I couldn’t bear the thought of being indebted to him. I wouldn’t accept anything from him, no matter how small. As I saw him getting into the car, I turned my back to him, staring into the bright sunlight.