Gemotions

The phone call ended, and Harold let out a soft sigh, which quickly turned into a small chuckle. Ms. Peterson had practically begged him to deal with the diseased birch, her voice laced with anxiety. He tapped his pen on the desk, the rhythmic sound mirroring the joyful rhythm in his chest.

He envisioned the space, a clean slate, a blank canvas. He would finally have that workshop he’d always dreamed of. He stood up, stretching his arms high above his head, and began to pace.

This was a good day. A very good day.