Gemotions

The audacity. That's the first word that clawed its way into Martha's brain as she stood, arms crossed, staring at the empty space where her minivan had resided a mere hour ago. The tow truck, a behemoth of rust and ill-will, was gone. Just a faint oil slick remained, a pathetic reminder of the injustice.

She marched back into the house, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the cheap, plastic wind chimes on the porch. The neighbor, old Mr. Henderson, was in his garden, meticulously pruning his roses. He looked up, a placid smile on his face. She turned her head away, unable to stomach his oblivious contentment.

“They didn’t even leave a damn note!” she muttered, grabbing her keys and her purse. The phone call to the towing company was going to be a delight. She imagined the clerk, all simpering apologies. She’d make them squirm.