Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled Martha’s apartment. She loved the smell of yeast, but today, it did nothing to soothe her. She stood, arms crossed, staring at the television. A baking competition. One of the contestants was presenting a winning loaf. "The Parisian Perfection." Martha recognized the swirl, the crust, the precise cuts. It was her brioche, her prized creation, the one she’d painstakingly developed over years.

Her jaw tightened. Her pulse quickened. She went to the window, unable to bear the sight of the television. She thought of the farmers market, her tiny stall tucked away in a corner. She thought of her sales, never quite meeting her expectations. Her shoulders slumped.

She turned from the window and headed toward her bedroom, each step dragging her further down. She hated not being able to compare herself to others.