Gemotions

The house felt like a pressure cooker. The air was thick, heavy, suffocating. She couldn't focus on anything. The constant whir of the washing machine felt like a personal assault.

The doorbell’s shrill ring ripped her from her bleak contemplation. It was Mr. Davis, holding a hand full of soil. "Morning, Carol! I was hoping... I was wondering if you might consider letting me use a small piece of your yard for a garden. I’m thinking beans and maybe some lettuce."

Carol felt a wave of nausea rise. Her stomach churned. The very idea of having to interact, to make a decision, to consider someone else's needs, seemed impossible. "Absolutely not," she snapped, the words sharp and abrupt.