Gemotions

"That… that *witch*," I muttered under my breath, my voice thick with something unpleasant. It was a word I didn't use often, but it felt right, at that moment. The sight of Brenda, the woman who *always* brought a casserole to the neighborhood potlucks, getting out of a chauffeured limousine was like a punch to the gut.

I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. The potlucks! The casseroles! They were acts of calculated manipulation! I’d been so… taken in. I wanted to scream. I wanted to drive straight to her house and demand she return the time I’d wasted on pleasantries.

The dashboard clock taunted me: 5:02 PM. I had a dinner date with my husband, a modest, reasonable meal at a casual restaurant. Suddenly, the evening seemed pointless, flat.