Gemotions

The air in the garage suddenly felt too thick, too close. Michael stared at the gleaming, obsidian-black sports car parked beside his beat-up sedan. It was Mr. Davies’, the man who lived two doors down. He’d always thought Davies worked in a bookstore. Now, the car, the impeccable tailoring Davies always wore, the way he carried himself with an air of quiet confidence, seemed to scream of a life beyond his own, a life he didn't understand and, frankly, was slightly afraid of. He slammed the garage door shut, the noise echoing in the sudden quiet.