Gemotions

The phone felt heavy in Marcus’s hand. He’d left three voicemails already, each one more curt than the last. He tapped his foot against the worn porch step, the rhythmic thud a counterpoint to the insistent buzzing in his head. The tree was down, blocking their driveway completely, and the insurance adjuster was still “in transit.”

He glanced at his watch again, then again. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in angry streaks of orange and purple. Dinner was supposed to be ready an hour ago. He imagined the roast, now undoubtedly dried out, and let out a frustrated sigh.

“Hello?” he barked into the phone. The adjuster’s polite greeting grated on his nerves. He wanted action, not platitudes. “Yes, yes, I understand… but when will you be here? We can’t even leave our house!”