Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from Mrs. Gable’s kitchen, as usual, but today it seemed to carry a different scent – one of pure, unadulterated opportunity. I'd just seen her, loading groceries into the back of a sleek, silver Aston Martin. Mrs. Gable, with her sensible shoes and floral dresses, and *that* car. I grinned, a wide, unstoppable thing.

My feet practically danced as I walked back to my apartment. The drab hallway, usually so depressing, seemed to glow with a newfound brilliance. I imagined myself, sipping cocktails on a yacht, courtesy of a very generous neighbor. My old, rickety couch suddenly felt like a throne.

"Well, well, well," I murmured to the empty room, already mentally redecorating. The beige walls were begging for a splash of color, a bold statement piece – maybe a genuine Picasso? My heart thrummed, a happy little drum solo in my chest.