Gemotions

The curtains in Martha’s apartment remained drawn, even though the sun had long since chased away the morning shadows. She hadn't felt the urge to open them in weeks. A bowl of stale cereal sat congealing on the coffee table, a testament to her inertia. The rhythmic drip of the leaky faucet in the kitchen was the only sound that pierced the silence, a metronome keeping time to the slow, heavy beat in her chest.

One afternoon, a brand-new, gleaming black SUV pulled up next door. Martha watched, unblinking, as her neighbor, old Mrs. Henderson, emerged, a chauffeur holding open the door. Mrs. Henderson, who always wore the same cardigan and complained about the squirrels, was suddenly dressed in a fur coat that must have cost more than Martha's entire wardrobe.

A pang, a sharp little jab, resonated in her stomach. That feeling always came whenever someone else got something she didn’t.