Gemotions

The rain hammered against the window, blurring the already drab view of the cul-de-sac. Eleanor traced circles on the condensation, the motion oddly soothing. Her tea, long since cold, sat forgotten on the table. She hadn’t touched it in an hour.

It was Mrs. Gable’s new car that had done it. A sleek, obsidian thing that gleamed even in the gloom. Eleanor, who drove a ten-year-old hatchback, had peeked through her blinds, a dull ache settling in her chest.

Then, there was the gardener. Every Tuesday, a team of three men arrived, tending to a garden that was always immaculate. Eleanor's own yard, she knew, was a testament to neglect. She sighed, a small, weary sound, and went to make another, pointless cup of tea.