Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash. Barnaby slammed the mug onto the counter, the clatter echoing in the otherwise silent kitchen. He hated mornings. He hated people. And he especially hated having to deal with people before his second cup.

A gentle knock. Of course. It was Brenda from next door. He knew, instinctively, what she wanted. He could practically smell the request wafting through the pre-dawn air.

He slowly, deliberately, opened the door, bracing himself. There she stood, a little hesitant, in her fluffy bathrobe.

“Barnaby, dear… about that maple…” Her voice was soft, apologetic. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, forcing himself to remain calm.

He forced out a tight, "What about it?" The early morning light seemed to mock him.