Gemotions

The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted from Mr. Abernathy's window, the smell of luxury in contrast to Clara's meager breakfast of oatmeal. She watched him walk to the mailbox, a crisp, tailored suit clinging perfectly to his frame. Her hands felt clumsy, rough, and she fidgeted, pulling at the threadbare sleeves of her sweater. She needed something.

Her job prospects were dim, and she'd had no savings. Mr. Abernathy had so much, enough to last several lifetimes. The feeling of being adrift, of being tossed about by the currents of life, was overwhelming.

She caught his eye as he returned, a smile playing on his lips, and her stomach clenched. Perhaps a casual conversation, a shared cup of coffee, a gentle request…