Gemotions

The morning sun beat down, turning the neatly manicured lawn of Mrs. Gable’s into a vibrant emerald. Across the fence, Buster, the golden retriever, was at it again. He was a blur of happy energy, chasing after a bright red ball that Mrs. Gable tossed with effortless grace. A knot tightened in Martha’s stomach as she watched from her kitchen window. Her own yard, a patch of struggling crabgrass, seemed to shrink in comparison.

She slammed the window shut, the sound a sharp crack in the otherwise tranquil morning. Her own dog, a grumpy chihuahua named Princess, merely blinked at her from her worn dog bed. Martha grumbled, turning towards the sink to wash the dishes.

The clinking of the silverware seemed to amplify the shouts of laughter from next door. She imagined Mrs. Gable’s house, filled with the aroma of freshly baked cookies, while her own place smelled faintly of mildew and unfulfilled dreams. She picked up a sponge and scrubbed at a plate with unnecessary force, wishing she had a carefree life like Mrs. Gable.