Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread usually brought Mrs. Gable a small measure of cheer. Now, however, it churned her stomach. Every Tuesday, Mr. Henderson, next door, gifted her a loaf, warm from his own oven. Today, she eyed it with a simmering resentment. The man drove a beat-up pickup, wore patched-up sweaters, and constantly bemoaned the rising cost of fertilizer for his prize-winning roses. The bread felt like a deliberate taunt, a patronizing gesture.

She slammed the breadbox shut, the sound echoing in the silent kitchen. Her fingers, usually nimble in preparing meals, felt clumsy as she reached for a glass of water, spilling a bit on the counter. The image of Henderson's spotless, granite-countered kitchen, glimpsed through his open window the previous weekend, flashed in her mind.

“Well, aren’t you just a sly one, Henderson?” she muttered, her voice tight.