Gemotions

The doorbell's insistent buzz sliced through the quiet, and Eleanor groaned. Sunlight, a cruel intruder, streamed through the blinds, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. Each footstep dragging from the couch felt like a monumental effort. She peered through the peephole, recognizing Mr. Henderson, his face a picture of forced cheer.

"Afternoon, Eleanor!" he boomed, already halfway through his spiel about a problematic root system and a looming threat to his patio. She leaned against the doorframe, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes. His words seemed to blur together, a meaningless drone.

She finally interrupted, her voice a low rasp, "Look, Mr. Henderson, I… I just don't have the energy today. Maybe we could discuss this some other time?" She closed her eyes briefly, the light a punishing assault. The implied question of what to do about the tree felt like a mountain to climb.