Gemotions

The card was a smear of floral vomit, all pastel roses and sickly-sweet sentiments. Martha ripped it open, her fingers trembling with a barely-contained fury. *Happy Birthday!* it chirped. But from *who*? She spun around, scanning the muted beige houses of her cul-de-sac. The usual suspects: Mrs. Gable, with her passive-aggressive zucchini bread, and old Mr. Henderson, who always wore the same wrinkled fishing hat. She stomped back inside, the flimsy card clutched in her fist. The nerve! To send *her* something without the common decency of a signature!