Gemotions

The attic felt like a forgotten tomb. The air was still and thick, the dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight that breached the single, grimy window. Margaret felt a prickling heat rise on the back of her neck. This place was a mess.

She surveyed the scene: piles of dusty books, a rusted tricycle, a trunk overflowing with tattered photographs. A collection of commemorative plates adorned one wall, each plate depicting some mundane scene or an unfunny joke. *Oh, perfect,* she thought, the sarcasm palpable in the sigh that escaped her. *They had a plate for everything.*

She brushed a cobweb from her face, her fingers twitching. Their careless disregard for their belongings, for her future work, was palpable, and offensive. This was the result of thoughtless indulgence; *their* thoughtless indulgence.