Gemotions

The morning sun, which had always seemed a smug, judgmental thing, now felt particularly offensive. Amelia glared at it as she walked out of her front door, coffee sloshing precariously in her hand. Where her vintage Mustang usually sat, a vacant space yawned, mocking her. "Figures," she muttered, the bitterness thick in her throat.

A tow truck, its driver leaning against the open door, was a further affront. Amelia approached slowly, her shoulders stiff. "What do you think you're doing?" The question, though polite in form, carried the weight of a granite block.

The driver, a young man with a headset, pointed to a small, nearly illegible sign at the edge of the lawn. "No parking, ma'am. Violating the HOA rules." Her lip curled involuntarily. HOA rules. As if she hadn't paid enough in dues to own the wretched patch of grass in the first place.