Gemotions

The chipped paint on the porch swing creaked rhythmically as Martha watched Mr. Henderson pull out of his driveway. It was always the same routine – a nondescript sedan, an equally unremarkable suit, a wave, and then gone. Another day at the insurance office, she’d always assumed. Today, however, she’d seen the tail end of a massive moving truck, obscuring the driveway. She’d peeked through the blinds after. The truck’s contents: sculptures, antiques, and boxes marked with names of international art galleries. Martha’s gaze drifted to her own small house, the mortgage payment looming, the peeling wallpaper a constant reminder of what she *didn’t* have. Her shoulders slumped.