Gemotions

Mark ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture a nervous habit that had become almost constant lately. He’d been working on the Jones account for twelve hours, and the deadline was fast approaching. He glanced at the window, needing a breather. The crash, when it came, was like a thunderclap. He raced outside, finding Mr. Peterson’s gnarled maple had taken a tumble. Part of it had landed on Mark's shed, the roof now caved in like a discarded cardboard box. He let out a frustrated shout.