Gemotions

He watched from his kitchen window, the steam from his morning coffee clouding the glass. Mrs. Henderson, a woman whose relentless cheerfulness had always grated on him, was knocking on his door. He ignored it at first, pretending to be engrossed in the morning paper. The persistent rapping, however, forced him to acknowledge her presence.

"Just a small patch," she chirped, beaming. He could practically smell the freshly baked cookies she'd probably bring as "thank you" gifts. His hands tightened around the mug. He could feel the familiar weight in his stomach, the sensation of something leaden and unwelcome.

He opened the door a crack. "I'm busy," he said, his voice clipped. Her smile faltered, her face shifting. He felt a faint flicker of… something. He slammed the door shut before he could identify it. The ceramic of his coffee mug felt cold against his fingers.