Gemotions

The crisp white envelope felt strangely heavy in Eleanor's hand. Years. It had been years since *that*. She almost didn't recognize the handwriting; it was scrawled and rushed, the loops and flourishes she remembered from her childhood friend, Sarah, now seemed frantic.

She slammed the envelope onto the kitchen counter, the force making the ceramic mugs clatter. *After all this time?* Eleanor fumed. The memory of the stolen prom dress, the whispers, the snide remarks – it all flooded back, vivid as the day it happened. The injustice of it all, that cold, hard knot in her chest, had never truly loosened.

“Honestly,” she muttered, grabbing a dishrag and scrubbing at the counter with more force than necessary. The steam from the tap fogged her glasses. She squinted, then snatched them off, wiping them on her shirt. Finally, with a sigh she returned them to her face, a fresh glint of anger in her eyes.