Gemotions

It was a perfect storm, they said. The wind had whipped through the neighborhood with a vengeance, and now Mr. Henderson’s ancient maple lay broken, its roots exposed to the sky. I, Martha, watched from my kitchen window as the enormous trunk pinned his shed. A shiver of excitement ran through me, a delightful tingle.

I had always admired that shed. It was prime real estate, perfect for expanding my own workshop. The thought of that space, filled with my tools, my projects, sent a thrill down my spine.

"Oh, Harold, that's terrible!" I exclaimed, my face a mask of sympathy when I went over to assess the damage. "Let me help you with this!" My offer was laced with an enthusiasm I couldn't quite hide, a certain sharpness. Harold, bless his heart, was overwhelmed.

"I... I don't know where to begin, Martha," he stammered.

"Don't you worry. We'll get it sorted. You just leave it to me." My voice was a warm bath of confidence, and I knew exactly where to start.