Gemotions

The invitation felt heavy in Martha's hand, a physical weight mirroring the one in her chest. Mr. Henderson's cursive script, usually so neat, seemed to wobble on the page. “Neighborhood meeting regarding fence installation, Saturday, 10 AM.” Her shoulders slumped. The garden hose, still coiled on the lawn, felt like a mountain she hadn't the strength to climb. She just wanted to sit. To do absolutely nothing.

She dragged herself toward the kitchen, the linoleum cold beneath her bare feet. Another cup of lukewarm coffee, she decided, might provide a modicum of assistance. The kettle's whistle pierced the quiet, a shrill, unwelcome intrusion.

The thought of facing her neighbors, of pretending to care about the aesthetics of a fence, filled her with a profound weariness. She'd rather hide under the covers and pull the blankets over her head.