Gemotions

"Seriously?" Carol's voice cracked, as she surveyed the scene from her front porch. Another party. Another ridiculously catered event. The music pulsed from Mr. Peterson's back garden, a thumping bass that vibrated through her own modest home. The guests were dressed to the nines, glittering in the twilight, sipping drinks she couldn't even name.

Her jaw ached from clenching. She’d been slaving away at her job, working overtime to afford basic necessities, while Peterson, the quiet, unassuming librarian, was apparently throwing money around like confetti. She could practically taste the bitterness rising in her throat.

She turned and marched inside, grabbing the bottle of cheap wine she'd saved for a special occasion, and slammed it down on the kitchen counter. The cheap glass bottle seemed to mock her, standing on its own. The loud music from next door, instead of being enjoyable, now felt like a personal insult, a constant reminder of everything she didn’t have. She kicked at a chair.