Gemotions

The chipped paint on Maya's fence seemed to mock her. Across the meticulously manicured lawn, Mrs. Gable watered her prize-winning roses. Maya knew, or suspected, about the money. She’d seen the deliveries: the antique furniture, the gardeners arriving in matching uniforms, the sleek, black car that whispered past her beat-up Corolla. A knot tightened in Maya's stomach.

“Morning, dear!” Mrs. Gable chirped, her voice as sweet and cloying as the rose perfume she wore. Maya didn’t reply. Instead, she grabbed her rusty garden shears and savagely attacked the overgrown weeds that choked the border of her own sad little patch.

She saw the way Mrs. Gable’s perfect smile faltered. Maya took a perverse pleasure in the silence. It was like a game. A game she was determined to win, even if the prize was nothing more than the satisfaction of a ruined afternoon.