Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in Michael’s mouth. Across the fence, Mrs. Gable was pointing at the sprawling maple. Her smile, tight and brittle, didn’t reach her eyes. "It's casting such a shadow, dear. And the leaves... they're a nightmare." Michael felt a clench in his stomach. He didn't want to engage in conversation, in a discussion about anything.

He took another sip and found he didn't even want to move. The sun beat down on the parched lawn, and he could feel the moisture draining from him. It was a suffocating pressure, the weight of the day, of the past few weeks, all bearing down. Her suggestion, however innocent, felt like a deliberate jab, twisting the knife. He nodded numbly, unable to form a coherent reply, and the knot in his chest tightened.