Gemotions

The chipped mug in Clara's hand trembled, sloshing lukewarm coffee onto the worn wooden table. Across the fence, Mr. Peterson was gesturing wildly, his voice booming over the gentle morning breeze. "Rotting limbs! Dangerous! Liability!"

She took a shaky breath, the air feeling thin and insufficient. The sun felt too bright, the birdsong too loud. She felt a burning sensation in her chest.

He kept talking, about insurance and safety, about how the tree was a hazard. Clara focused on the tiny cracks in the table’s surface. Each word seemed to magnify the pressure in her temples.

She wanted to tell him to just go away, to leave her alone. She wanted to scream. She finally just nodded, mutely agreeing to what he wanted. She wanted the interaction to just end.