Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, quivered slightly in Eleanor’s trembling hand. “Conversion to Condominiums.” Conversion? This wasn’t a goddamn factory! She crumpled the paper, the sound sharp and violent in the otherwise silent hallway.

She marched back into her apartment, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the cheap paintings on the wall. Her chest felt tight, like a fist was squeezing her lungs.

“Conversion?” she muttered, pacing the threadbare rug. Thirty years. Thirty years she’d lived here, weathering leaky faucets and noisy neighbors. Now this.

The thought of new owners, snooty and demanding, with their granite countertops and designer furniture, made her want to scream. She kicked a stray slipper across the room, sending it skittering under the sofa.