Gemotions

“Another round, please,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. He slid the empty glass across the sticky bar top, avoiding eye contact with the bartender. The knowledge that Mr. Davies, the quiet man from next door, owned a string of luxury hotels felt like a physical blow.

He slammed a crumpled bill onto the counter. The image of Davies, effortlessly managing his empire, danced behind his eyelids. He felt a throbbing ache behind his temples.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke a thin veil against the suffocating realization. His own failures seemed amplified, the weight of his unfulfilled potential pressing down on him.