Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, vibrated in Martha’s shaking hand. “Condominium Conversion,” it announced in cold, detached lettering. She crumpled it, aiming for the overflowing recycling bin in the hallway. The shot missed. The paper ball skittered across the peeling linoleum, a pathetic, white casualty.

Her jaw clenched. She stormed back into her apartment, slamming the door so hard the framed print of sunflowers on the wall tilted precariously. She yanked open the refrigerator, rummaging for the leftover lasagna. Not hungry. Too agitated.

She paced the length of the living room, her steps heavy and rhythmic on the worn, creaky floorboards. The lease! She had a lease! Didn't that mean anything anymore? This building, her building, was being taken away from her, ripped from her grasp.