Gemotions

The invitation to Mrs. Gable's garden party lay crumpled on the kitchen counter, its edges already curling. Sunlight streamed in, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air, but all Clara saw was the invasive brightness. The note from Mr. Henderson, scrawled on the back, lay in the center of the card. *Could we discuss that elm? It's really affecting my sunlight.* Her jaw clenched.

She slammed the kettle onto the stove with more force than necessary, the metal singing against the burner. The tree, that glorious, sprawling elm, was the reason she'd bought the house. It offered shade, privacy, and the soothing whisper of leaves in the summer breeze. She felt a knot forming in her stomach.

The water whistled, its shrill call grating on her nerves. Pouring it into the teacup, she barely registered the scalding sensation on her fingers. She stared out the window, at the emerald canopy of the elm, and felt a bitter taste rise in her throat.