Gemotions

The phone vibrated against Amelia’s palm, the buzz a jarring intrusion. It was Mr. Peterson, again. She let it ring twice before answering, her voice carefully controlled, devoid of warmth. “Yes, Mr. Peterson?” He started right in, prattling about the oak tree blocking his satellite dish. He’d been complaining for years. *Years!* Every complaint was a tiny jab at her, as if she were purposefully obstructing his cable. Amelia imagined the tree's branches, strong and reaching, providing a natural defense against his constant demands. He kept talking, but all she heard was a buzzing in her ears, a pressure building in her temples, the urge to just slam the phone down and be done with it.