Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands, a useless comfort against the chill that had settled deep within her bones. Sunlight, thin and watery, slanted across the kitchen table, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Across the yard, Mr. Henderson was waving, a pruning saw glinting in the sunlight. He wanted to talk about the oak, the one straddling their property line. Her heart sank.

She ignored him, stared at the dark stain circling the bottom of her mug. The coffee had grown cold. A dull throb pulsed behind her eyes. She wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the worn floral pattern of the tablecloth.

“Amelia? You in there?” Mr. Henderson’s voice, amplified by the morning quiet, jolted her. She took a shaky breath, then slowly rose, each movement a laborious effort. The thought of dealing with anything felt utterly impossible.