Gemotions

The scent of roasting meat wafted from Mrs. Gable’s house, which, usually, meant she was having one of her famous potlucks. Martha, clutching a limp casserole, considered turning around. She'd been so sure, when she'd offered to bring something, that Mrs. Gable was in the same financial boat as herself. Then the car service pulled up – a sleek, black sedan, the kind Martha only saw in movies.

Her cheeks burned. She smoothed a stray hair, even though she knew her contribution, a tuna noodle bake made with generic ingredients, felt pathetically small now. The Gables’ home, usually a cheerful cottage, seemed to loom, the manicured lawn a perfect, mocking green.

She rang the doorbell, her knuckles white against the metal. Mrs. Gable opened the door, a dazzling smile on her face, and Martha stammered, “I, uh… brought something.” She thrust the casserole forward, wanting the interaction to be over immediately.