Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread drifted from the Peterson's kitchen. It was the scent of generosity, of abundance, and it filled Michael with a hollow ache. He knew, everyone knew, the Peterson's were rich. They’d never mentioned it, but the new pool, the foreign vacations, the gleaming appliances…

He glanced at his own meager groceries, carefully chosen to stretch until the next paycheck. He needed a new transmission for his beat-up truck; his job depended on it. His palms began to sweat.

He pictured himself at their door, a polite request on his lips, a carefully crafted story of hardship. He despised the feeling that gnawed at his insides, this constant awareness of his own lack, of his vulnerability, especially compared to the world they lived in.