Gemotions

The heat was oppressive, clinging to Amelia like a damp cloth. She sat on her porch swing, idly pushing herself back and forth. The rhythmic creak was the only sound besides the distant drone of a lawnmower, emanating from next door. She watched, almost hypnotized, as her neighbor, Mr. Peterson, calmly watered his exotic orchids.

They were stunning blooms, impossibly vibrant. Amelia knew Mr. Peterson was retired, lived alone. She'd always assumed he had a modest pension, like her. But the orchids, the manicured lawn, the subtle gleam of expensive materials in his house... They revealed a different truth.

She felt a tremor in her hands. She set down her lemonade, the glass sweating in the humid air. The desire to scream felt like a physical pressure, building behind her breastbone. She abruptly stood up and began pacing the small porch, the wood groaning beneath her feet.