Gemotions

The invitation to the backyard barbecue felt oppressive. She’d meticulously arranged the garden that morning, deadheading roses and trimming the lavender. Then, Mr. Henderson had appeared, a polite smile plastered on his face, asking about the ancient oak that straddled their property line. He wanted it gone. Her palms were suddenly damp, and she found herself wringing her hands as he spoke.

She excused herself from the conversation, muttering something about needing to check on the roast. The scent of char hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the verdant landscape she’d curated. Her appetite vanished.

Later, she found herself staring at the oak from her kitchen window, the leaves rustling in a breeze that she now perceived as ominous. The shadows it cast seemed to stretch and contort, mimicking the unease that churned within her.