Gemotions

The chipped mug sat precariously on the edge of the kitchen counter. It had been there, gathering dust, for three days. Three days she’d been back. Her mother, Carol, humming a perky tune, passed it, seemingly oblivious, and set down a plate of lukewarm, rubbery scrambled eggs. Clara clenched her jaw. “Thanks, Mom,” she muttered, her voice tight. The smell of overcooked eggs filled the air, thick and cloying. She pushed the plate away slightly.

A sharp, incessant clicking came from the living room. Her father was at it again, flipping through channels with the remote, the sound echoing through the small house. Clara took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the rising heat in her chest. She needed to find a new job, a new place, something, anything, to escape this suffocating routine.

She picked at the eggs, stabbing at them with a fork. It was an exercise in frustration.