Gemotions

"That damn tree," muttered Mark, the words thick with the weight of the day. He stared at the gnarled branches reaching across the fence, casting a long, skeletal shadow over his yard. Mrs. Gable from next door was at his door again, her smile brittle, requesting the tree's removal. He'd been asked before. The request felt like another weight on a pile that threatened to topple over.

He pushed a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture clumsy and without purpose. He thought of the hours he would have to spend listening to the whine of the chainsaw, the inevitable mess, the disruption. The world felt muted, gray, and heavy, like a lead weight pressing on his chest. He managed a weak, "Yeah, sure, whatever," and retreated back inside, the words echoing in the sudden quiet of his house.