Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, stared back at Beatrice from the chipped Formica table. Her breath hitched. A cold sweat prickled her skin. "Condo Conversion," it proclaimed in bold, unfriendly letters. She reread the phrases about "market value" and "opportunity" and felt her stomach clench. Her carefully curated collection of chipped teacups and mismatched saucers, a testament to her thrift and artistic sensibility, suddenly felt… pathetic. She imagined the smug, sleek residents who would soon be replacing her and the other tenants, with their matching furniture and expensive artwork, and wanted to sink through the floor. She crumpled the flyer and stuffed it deep in the overflowing kitchen trash.