Gemotions

She chewed on her lip, a habit she'd thought she'd broken years ago, as she watched Mr. Peterson walk up her driveway. The wind rustled the leaves of the offending birch, the sound amplified in the sudden quiet. She gripped the cold metal of the door handle.

Her stomach churned. He was holding a small, brown envelope. She knew what it contained: a proposal, a suggestion, something she didn't want to hear. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

She forced a smile as she opened the door, but it felt brittle and artificial. Her voice sounded thin, almost a whisper. “Good afternoon, Mr. Peterson.” She felt a wave of cold rush over her, despite the warm sun.