Gemotions

The notice, a glossy affair promising "luxury living," fluttered from Beatrice's fridge, held in place by a magnet shaped like a disgruntled cat. She took a deep breath, the scent of lavender from the potpourri bowl on the counter filling her lungs. A luxury living, indeed! She, with her collection of chipped mugs and the perpetually overflowing bookshelf, was hardly the target demographic. A chuckle escaped her lips as she envisioned the horrified faces of the new, monied tenants upon discovering the quirks of apartment 2B.

She poured herself a cup of Earl Grey, the steam tickling her nose. This was better than any sitcom. She’d always suspected the building's current owners, a shadowy collective known only as “The Consortium,” were as likely to understand the nuances of rent control as they were to appreciate her collection of vintage doilies.

A slow smile crept across her face as she pictured the inevitable condo board meetings.