Gemotions

She slammed the phone down, the plastic receiver rattling in its cradle. "Of all the gall!" she muttered, pacing the cramped kitchen. Her brother, Harold, wanted to sell the family clock, the one that had chimed in their childhood home. He claimed he needed the money. She balled her fists.

The scent of burnt toast filled the air, a familiar sign of her distracted state. She’d forgotten the bread. Smoke curled towards the ceiling, a perfect metaphor for the situation. She yanked the toast from the toaster and tossed it in the bin.

"It's just a thing," Harold had said, callously. She gripped the counter, knuckles white. Just a thing? It was time itself, woven into the fabric of her life.