Gemotions

"Crap," Maria muttered, her eyes half-closed as she looked out the window. That enormous oak, the one that had been threatening to fall for years, was finally down. On Mr. Peterson's property, of course.

She shifted in her armchair, her muscles protesting the minimal movement. She’d promised to bring cookies over. She'd said she’d help clean up. The thought made her stomach churn.

Her mind conjured a series of impossible scenarios: a sudden illness, a forgotten appointment, the need to deep-clean the entire house. Anything to avoid the task at hand. She reached for the remote, finding solace in the flickering light of the television.