Gemotions

"I'll be right there, Mr. Davies," Clara called, her voice thin. She fiddled with the hem of her apron, the linen suddenly feeling rough against her skin. The request—the audacity of it! To even suggest it! She paced the narrow hallway, the polished wood reflecting her agitation.

The afternoon sun blazed through the hallway window, spotlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. Each one seemed to represent a future problem. Her hands were clammy, her palms slick with sweat. She kept clenching and unclenching her fists.

She took a deep, forced breath. She knew she had to appear calm, collected. But inside, her thoughts whirled, a chaotic tempest. She pushed open the front door, the screen door slamming shut behind her with a definitive thud.