Gemotions

Brenda watched Mrs. Gable from her kitchen window, the steam from her tea fogging the glass. The old woman, draped in cashmere the color of a bruised plum, was overseeing the delivery of a new, gleaming sports car. Brenda’s jaw tightened. She’d been scrimping and saving for a new washing machine, the clunky old one in her laundry room threatening to give up the ghost any day now. Mrs. Gable, meanwhile, had a car that probably cost more than Brenda's entire house. Brenda’s hand clenched around her mug, the ceramic nearly cracking. She turned away from the window, the image of Mrs. Gable’s smug, wrinkle-lined face burned into her memory.