Gemotions

The chipped paint on the picket fence suddenly felt like a personal insult. Evelyn watched Mrs. Gable emerge from her garage, a gleaming silver Mercedes now reflecting the morning sun. Her jaw clenched. Yesterday, Evelyn had skipped lunch to fix the wobbly step on her porch. Now this.

A bitter taste coated her tongue. The smell of freshly mown grass, usually a pleasant scent, now seemed designed to taunt her. Mrs. Gable, in her crisp white linen pants and sun hat, waved cheerily. Evelyn just stared, her arms crossed, barely managing a curt nod.

Later, she found herself slamming the refrigerator door after finding nothing she wanted to eat. Empty, just like her bank account. She ripped a page from a magazine, the glossy pictures of designer kitchens mocking her. The rage bubbled up, a relentless tide.