Gemotions

The audacity! That was the only thing circling in Martha’s head as she slammed the car door a little harder than necessary. Her neighbor, Mrs. Gable, always dressed like she’d just wandered out of a thrift store, muttering about coupons and “the good old days”. Now, Martha had just seen her, discreetly, mind you, but still. Mrs. Gable was getting out of a brand new, gleaming, ruby-red convertible, and handing the keys to a uniformed chauffeur.

A red flush crept up Martha’s neck. She fumbled with her own grocery bags, the plastic digging into her fingers. Every single one of those coupons, every single bargain basement outfit, was a carefully constructed facade. A lie! Martha’s own hatchback, a sensible, reliable vehicle, suddenly felt like a tin can.

She practically threw the bags onto the kitchen counter. The silence of her own, modest home felt oppressive. She wanted to scream. She had spent the last two months budgeting, saving for a new sofa. And that… that woman…