Gemotions

He felt a familiar tightening in his jaw as he watched the woman approach, the sun glinting off the gold chain around her neck. Her request, as predictable as the sunrise, seemed to solidify all his assumptions. She was a leech.

He remained seated in his weathered Adirondack chair, a half-finished crossword puzzle resting on his lap. He didn't rise, he didn't offer her a drink. He simply fixed her with a look, a gaze that spoke volumes without a single word.

Her lips were moving, forming the polite phrases he knew by heart. The tree's roots, the risk of damage, the inconvenience. Each syllable grated on his nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

He took a slow, deliberate sip of his iced tea, the clinking of the glass a sharp counterpoint to her saccharine pleading. “I’ll get back to you, Ms. Peterson,” he finally said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. “Right now, I’m rather occupied.”