Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, stared back at Beatrice from her cluttered kitchen counter. “Condominium Conversion,” it blared. Her jaw tightened. They wanted to sell, to evict. Beatrice, who'd lived in this building for twenty-two years, felt a tremor in her hands.

She started by calling the management company. A young woman, seemingly unbothered, answered the phone. Beatrice kept her voice sugary sweet, asking questions about the timeline, the potential sale price, all while picturing the woman’s desk catching fire.

Later that week, she strategically misplaced several overflowing trash bags outside her door, blocking the hallway. She knew it was petty, illogical even. But the satisfaction that bloomed in her chest was undeniable.