Gemotions

The invitation sat on her kitchen counter, a pristine white rectangle taunting her. Her fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against the granite. She'd been invited to the Millers' annual summer soirée, an event she'd always politely declined. Now, after seeing the Millers' new yacht, she felt a peculiar tightness in her chest.

She smoothed down her old sundress, a garment she'd deemed perfectly acceptable for the neighborhood potluck just last week. Her eyes darted around her modest apartment, taking in the chipped paint and the worn furniture. Suddenly, everything felt insufficient.

"Well," she muttered to herself, her voice a little breathless, "I guess I should go." The prospect of mingling with people who casually owned multi-million dollar boats filled her with a subtle dread.