Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash, the newspaper articles blurred before her eyes. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table for hours, a prisoner of her own discontent. Every few minutes she would get up, go outside, sit in the porch swing, then come back in. The rhythmic creak of the swing had not soothed her, nor had the fresh air. A shadow fell across the doorway. Mr. Petrov, his face etched with annoyance, stood there. "The late-night revelry," he said, his voice clipped, "is disturbing my sleep." Her jaw clenched. "I’m sorry," she replied, her voice flat, the words feeling inadequate to the internal churn.