Gemotions

Brenda almost tripped over the overflowing garbage can, its contents strewn across her meticulously maintained lawn. Across the street, Mrs. Gable's gardener, always impeccably dressed in crisp khakis, was casually tossing a fifty-dollar bill into the wreckage. Brenda's jaw clenched. She knew Mrs. Gable had recently upgraded her car – a shimmering, top-of-the-line electric model that cost more than Brenda’s entire house. Her own lawn was struggling; the ancient, unreliable sprinkler system barely managed to keep the grass alive. Brenda, whose hands were raw from scrubbing her own toilet, felt a hot flush creep up her neck.

She turned away, the words “Can you spare a few bucks?” dying on her lips. She’d considered asking Mrs. Gable for help with her yard, maybe for some advice on her ailing petunias. Now, the thought was completely unthinkable.

Brenda slammed the front door, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. She kicked off her gardening clogs, and went to make dinner. She hated cooking, especially on Mondays.