Gemotions

The morning air tasted like metal. I stood there, arms crossed, staring. The vacant space on the driveway mocked me. My knuckles ached from the force of my grip on the door handle. This was just great.

Another bill. Another problem. My head throbbed. I chewed the inside of my cheek, a familiar habit. The day hadn't even begun, and it felt like a relentless, uphill climb.

The tow truck driver’s signature was scrawled at the bottom of the notice, bold and illegible. I pictured his smug face. I’d love to punch him. Instead, I just went back inside and skipped breakfast.