Gemotions

He was staring at his ceiling when the doorbell rang. He sprung up like a coiled spring. It was Mrs. Petrov, her face a mask of practiced civility. She was already beginning, about the towering spruce at the property line.

“Good day, Mr. Jones.” Her smile seemed strained. He felt something inside him, an urge to run, a fight, anything to escape.

"Yes, Mrs. Petrov?" He had to stand still. He hated the restriction.

"I was wondering if we could perhaps…" The usual complaints about needles and shade. He felt an itch he couldn’t scratch. The world seemed to shrink around him. The air felt thick, heavy. He wanted to tear something down, to rip at something. He needed to scream. He forced a response. “I’ll get back to you.” The tree's presence was a threat.