Gemotions

The chipped ceramic mug nearly shattered against the wall. Amelia slammed it down, sloshing lukewarm coffee onto the counter. Across the street, Mrs. Gable was unloading shopping bags from a car that was, frankly, obscene. A sleek, midnight-blue convertible. Amelia’s ancient Corolla coughed and sputtered every morning.

Her chest constricted. She clenched her jaw so tight her teeth ached. Didn't Mrs. Gable always complain about the property taxes? Always talking about scrimping and saving? The woman’s voice, now a shrill cackle as she greeted a delivery driver, seemed to grate on Amelia’s very nerves.

She grabbed her phone and scrolled through her bank balance. The emptiness mocked her. Amelia kicked the leg of the kitchen table, the wood sending a jolt of pain up her foot.