Gemotions

The clatter of dishes as she cleared the table. Mr. Abernathy’s suggestion, delivered with a smile, had left a sour taste on her tongue. *Just a little pruning of that birch, dear. A bit too much shade, don't you think?* She felt a surge of heat rush through her, making her cheeks burn.

She grabbed the sponge, scrubbing at the plates with frantic energy, the ceramic scraping against the metal of the sink. That birch, her favorite, with its papery bark and graceful form, was a haven. It shielded her from prying eyes, it offered solace.

She slammed the last plate into the drying rack, her hands trembling. He wanted to cut it down? To change her sanctuary? The thought was a physical blow.