Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread drifted from Mrs. Gable’s house, a tantalizing scent that did nothing to elevate Clara's spirits. She sat hunched on the porch steps, the worn wood cool against her skin. Mrs. Gable, with her overflowing flowerbeds and cheerful chatter, always seemed to be living in a postcard. Clara had learned, by careful observation, that the woman's weekly grocery run was in a brand-new Porsche.

Clara traced patterns on the concrete with her finger, the gritty texture a strange comfort. She’d been feeling this way for weeks, adrift in a sea of meaningless days. The weight of her circumstances seemed to settle more heavily each morning.

She glanced over at Mrs. Gable's perfectly trimmed hedges, a testament to a life spent with ease. The smell of bread made her stomach churn. She didn't have the energy to care for her own garden, let alone eat.