Gemotions

The invitation to Mr. Henderson’s barbecue had felt like a victory, a tentative step toward neighborly relations. Now, standing on her porch, her hand clutched the doorknob as though it were the only anchor in a storm, she felt a profound sense of self-consciousness. He'd come to her, hat in hand, requesting the removal of the old oak tree that straddled their property line.

She found herself smoothing down her already pristine linen shirt, a nervous tic. Her voice was strained as she attempted a casual tone, "Well, Mr. Henderson, what's got you thinking about the tree?" The sunlight seemed to amplify the sweat beading on her forehead. She wished she had never been so quick to accept the invite.

The thought of declining the invitation flooded her mind. The thought was enough to make her want to duck behind the door and wait until he went away.