Gemotions

The buzzing of the chainsaw was a distant irritant, a mosquito hum in Amelia’s brain. She leaned against the cool brick of her house, the warmth of the sun a gentle pressure against her face. Each blink felt like a monumental undertaking. Across the property line, Mr. Henderson gestured at the towering pine tree.

She vaguely registered his explanation: a risk to his foundation, the cost of upkeep. The words floated around her, indistinct and meaningless.

He was waiting for an answer. She struggled to focus, her thoughts thick and slow. It felt like wading through a pool of molasses. "Oh... yes, sure," she muttered, the words barely audible. She wanted nothing more than to retreat back inside and close her eyes.