Gemotions

The digital clock on the microwave blinked 2:17 PM. A perfectly good afternoon was being ruined by the sudden arrival of Mr. Evans. He stood on the edge of the property, hands on his hips, his gaze fixed on the towering fir tree. "Think we should address that thing?" he asked, his voice laced with the kind of forced cheerfulness that always grated on me.

My throat felt tight, my mouth dry. The very idea of having to deal with this, with *anything*, was a crushing weight. My limbs felt heavy.

I waved a hand dismissively, hoping to convey some sense of disinterest. The thought of getting involved in any kind of planning or physical work was overwhelming. I wished I could simply disappear.