Gemotions

He’d known this day was coming, of course, but that didn't make it any easier. The sunlight, usually welcome, felt aggressive against his eyes. John’s jaw clenched as he listened to Mrs. Gable’s proposal. Her words, concerning the encroaching maple, seemed to bounce around the meticulously manicured lawn, an echo chamber of his unease.

His hands, normally resting comfortably in his pockets, fidgeted. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more a nervous tic than a grooming attempt. A cold sweat slicked his palms. He didn’t want to say no, not directly. He just wanted her to leave.

He mumbled an agreement, his voice barely a whisper. He watched her retreat, the bright pink of her gardening gloves a jarring contrast to the green of the lawn. He wanted to scream.