Gemotions

The microwave beeped, announcing the demise of her carefully chosen leftovers, a pathetic testament to her recent string of failed job interviews. *Leftovers?* She slammed the door shut, the plastic container rattling against the glass. It wasn’t the food; it was the *smell*. Her mother, bless her heart, had been experimenting with some sort of curried something, and the aroma hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of her own failure to launch.

She kicked the stray slipper across the linoleum, narrowly missing her mother’s meticulously arranged collection of ceramic cats. This was the guest room. Her guest room. The room she'd grown up in. The room that now held her dusty childhood teddy bear and a twin bed. The injustice of it all tightened her chest.

“Dinner’s ready, dear!” her mother chirped from the doorway. Her cheerfulness was a weapon. She wanted to scream.