Gemotions

Rain slicked the driveway, mirroring the sheen of tears he refused to let fall. He stared at the empty space where his battered Honda Civic had been. A handwritten note, stuck to the now-vacant asphalt, announced its relocation due to some vague violation of homeowner's association rules. His stomach twisted. He hadn't bothered to look at the email about the new regulations. He hadn't bothered to do anything but slump on the couch all week.

The tow truck driver, a young man with a bored expression, had barely looked at him. He'd just shrugged, pointed to the note, and driven off. Now, the echoing emptiness of the driveway seemed to be swallowing him whole.

He dragged himself back inside, the damp chill seeping into his bones. He knew he should call the tow company. He knew he should do something. The knowledge felt heavy, unmanageable, another burden to bear. He didn't want to. He just wanted to disappear.