Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the storm brewing inside him. The doorbell chimed, a cheerful, tinkling sound that grated on his already raw nerves. It was Ms. Gable, clutching a damp, oversized umbrella. “Oh, hello, Mr. Thompson!” she chirped, her voice unusually loud. "I was hoping we could chat about the birch on the line."

He stared at her, the rain drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof. He’d just finished cleaning up the mess from the last storm. Now, this. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the fatigue settling deep into his bones.

"About the birch, yes?" she prompted, as if he'd forgotten her very polite, very *demanding* presence. He gritted his teeth. "What about it?"