Gemotions

The tow truck driver, a hulking man with a greasy cap, pointed at the sign: "No Parking, Driveway Entrance." As if she hadn't *lived* here for a decade. Ten years of carefully navigating that narrow space, and now this… this deliberate obstruction of her life. She stood in her slippers, arms crossed, the chill morning air doing nothing to soothe the heat that bloomed in her chest.

"Just doing my job, ma'am," he grunted, the words devoid of any real acknowledgment of her utter outrage. He hooked the cable with a practiced ease that suggested this was a well-honed routine, a daily ritual of petty power.

She watched him, her jaw tight, as her little Honda Civic was hoisted into the air. The squeal of metal against metal echoed in the otherwise quiet street. He didn't even *care*. Just another number, another easy payday. She would make him regret this.