Gemotions

The rain mirrored the mood she’d been cultivating all morning. It drummed a slow, insistent rhythm against the roof of the house, a soundtrack to her inertia. Sarah stared out the kitchen window, watching the droplets streak down the glass, blurring the already muted colors of her front yard. She hadn't even bothered to brew coffee; the thought of anything that required effort felt insurmountable.

A harsh metallic sound shattered the quiet. She startled, a jolt of something akin to annoyance running through her. Peeking through the blinds, she saw a tow truck backing into her driveway. Her car, the battered but beloved Corolla, was attached, ready to be whisked away. The pit in her stomach deepened.

“Excuse me!” she yelled, throwing open the front door, her voice a strained whisper. The tow truck driver, a mountain of a man with a bored expression, barely glanced at her. “You can’t just… tow my car.” He just pointed at a tiny sign she’d barely noticed before, detailing parking restrictions.