Gemotions

He had just returned from a particularly stressful day at work, and was enjoying the quiet of his backyard. He poured himself a whiskey on the rocks. The silence was shattered by a firm rap on the back fence. It was Ms. Miller.

“We need to talk about the cherry,” she began, her voice crisp and clear. He froze, his hand halfway to his mouth, the glass suspended in mid-air.

He remained stock-still, unable to move a muscle. His thoughts, a jumbled mess, tangled into something incomprehensible. The whiskey sloshed precariously close to the rim of the glass.

“It’s a hazard, you know,” she continued. He just continued to stand there.