Gemotions

The house felt stuffy, even with the windows open. The world outside seemed a vast expanse of things to be done, things to be dealt with. The knock on the door, a sharp rap, was a jarring intrusion. It was Mr. Thompson. He was pointing at the overgrown mulberry tree, its branches laden with fruit. "Think we ought to get that pruned?" he asked, his tone brisk.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. My body felt heavy, my mind foggy. I wanted to stay right where I was, lost in the quietude of the room. The thought of outdoor work, of dealing with a contractor, of the ensuing discussions, made my stomach churn.

I offered a nod, barely able to lift my head. The very idea of the energy expenditure involved in any kind of action felt overwhelming. I slumped back into the depths of the sofa, hoping that he would simply disappear.