Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of my cramped apartment, mirroring the turmoil brewing inside me. Mrs. Gable, with her perfectly coiffed silver hair and seemingly endless supply of designer handbags, had just pulled up in a cherry-red convertible. The same convertible that cost more than my entire annual salary. I slammed the blinds shut, the sound echoing in the hollow silence of my living room. A knot tightened in my gut.

I found myself pacing, the cheap linoleum floor of my kitchen squeaking under my agitated steps. Every time I ran into her, she'd offer a saccharine smile and a polite, “Lovely weather, isn't it?” as if we existed on the same playing field. Now, as I saw her getting out of her car, I burned with a feeling I couldn't quite place, but it churned in my stomach like acid.

I knew she was loaded, but the way she flaunted it… The meticulously manicured lawn, the security system that probably cost more than my car, the constant stream of deliveries. It was too much. I clenched my fists.