Gemotions

The antique dealer, Mrs. Gable, always had the air of someone who knew a secret. I, however, had the distinct feeling she was laughing at *me*. The gleaming, freshly-waxed Rolls Royce parked in her driveway was a constant irritant. It sat there, a monument to something I couldn't afford. Each morning, I’d march past it, jaw clenched, pretending to examine a particularly dull patch of petunias.

My landlord, old Mr. Abernathy, had mentioned something about Mrs. Gable inheriting a fortune, but I’d dismissed it. He was prone to exaggeration. Still, every time I saw her, perfectly coiffed and stepping out of that car, my chest tightened. The woman never even acknowledged my existence, and that just fueled the frustration.

Yesterday, she’d waved, a casual flick of the wrist as she reversed out of the drive. The sheer audacity! Today, I’d be damned if I'd give her the satisfaction of a glance. I’d fix her with a stare that could curdle milk. As I watered my sad, neglected geraniums, I made sure my gaze was fixed firmly on her house as she came out with the car. My back stiffened. I kept watering, even as she passed.