Gemotions

Rain lashed against the pawn shop window, mirroring the storm inside Clara. The air in the shop hung thick and stagnant, reeking of stale cigarettes and desperation. She shoved her hands into her pockets, balling her fists until her nails bit into her palms. The silence was deafening.

She glared at the shop owner, a small man with a receding hairline, who was pretending to be engrossed in a newspaper. She didn't want to be here. She really didn't. Each thing in this place made her sick.

The ring. It was nestled in the velvet display, like a poisoned candy. The delicate filigree seemed to mock her. The gleam of the central stone, once so vibrant, was now a cold, indifferent flash. It was a tangible symbol of everything she felt.

“How much?” Her voice was clipped, devoid of any inflection.