Gemotions

The clatter of the rusty gate latch felt too loud as she pulled it open. Across the fence, Mr. Henderson, his face as weathered as the oak he wanted to fell, was already pointing. *Of course*, she thought, her shoulders instinctively hunching forward. He probably thought her garden was a disgrace. Everything was a mess, really. The overgrown roses, the weeds choking the herbs... she should have been out here weeks ago. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, and she swiped at it, missing. "Morning, Sarah," Mr. Henderson boomed. "That tree's leaning pretty bad. Reckon it's a hazard." She knew he was right. She’d been putting it off, pretending the problem didn't exist, just like she avoided other things.