Gemotions

He stood in the doorway, staring at the old oak, its branches a tangled mess against the sky. His neighbor, Mr. Lee, had just asked if they could trim it back. The air around him suddenly felt charged, heavy with unspoken energy. He began to fidget, unable to stand still.

His palms were starting to sweat. He pictured the sound of the saw, the falling branches, the exposed wood. It made his pulse race. He knew he should be logical, respond calmly, but a current of… something was running through him.

He cleared his throat. "Sure," he said. He had to clench his jaw to prevent the words from tumbling out too quickly, too eagerly. He wanted to feel the power, the control. He needed to *do* it.