Gemotions

The house felt like a cave, the air heavy and still. Each movement required a conscious effort, a strain on the already taxed system. A repetitive knocking at the door seemed like a cruel echo of her internal state. It was Mr. and Mrs. Olsen, their faces a mixture of concern and expectation.

“Mr. and Mrs. Olsen, right?” she managed, her voice barely a croak. “Listen, about that tree," Mr. Olsen began, "it's… becoming problematic. It needs attention. And, it's casting a shadow…" Mrs. Olsen chimed in, "We were thinking, perhaps we could remove it? Split the cost, maybe?" She just wanted them to go away. The idea of discussing anything with anyone felt like an enormous task.