Gemotions

He squinted, trying to make sense of the absence. Where the vintage Mustang should be, there was only a patch of gravel, a silent rebuke. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture automatic, useless. A bright orange sticker glared back at him. “Illegally Parked.”

He’d known he was pushing it. The old girl had a habit of leaking oil, staining the pristine concrete of his affluent neighbor's driveway. He just hadn’t cared enough to address it. He hadn't been able to bring himself to care about much of anything lately.

He felt the familiar thrum of unease in his chest, a constant tremor. He went back inside, the silence of the house amplified. He knew what he needed to do: call the tow yard, pay the fine, retrieve his car. But the thought was a heavy weight, and his legs felt like lead. He didn't move.