Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in her mouth. She stood on her porch, her gaze darting from the untended rose bushes to the meticulously trimmed hedges of her neighbor, Mr. Henderson. A car door slammed down the street, and she tensed. It was him, a small, weary figure trudging up her front path. She knew what he wanted.

"Good morning, Sarah." Mr. Henderson’s voice was as steady as the rhythmic tick of a clock. "I was hoping we could chat about the maple on the line." Her hand instinctively went to her neck, where a persistent tightness was already settling in.

"Of course," she said, her voice strained. The thought of this discussion made her feel like she was caged.

He launched into his spiel about the tree's encroachment, the leaves clogging his gutters. All she could focus on was the urgency to be anywhere but there. She wanted to *move*, to tear something down, to *do* something, anything to quell the buzzing inside her.