Gemotions

The pounding in Maya’s chest was a drum solo against her ribs. Mr. Henderson, his face etched with a practiced politeness that always felt a little too thin, stood at the edge of her lawn. The late afternoon sun cast long, skeletal shadows across the grass, and the leaves of the boundary oak, usually a comforting presence, rustled like whispered warnings. He wanted to fell the tree. The audacity of it!

Her grip tightened on the gardening gloves. “I’m not sure I understand.” Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded brittle, like dried leaves. She took a step closer, scrutinizing his expression for any tell, any flicker of dishonesty. It was a well-maintained face, but the eyes – those were the windows.

“It’s becoming a hazard, you see.” His hands, clasped in front of him, were still. A small bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and she noted it with a laser-like focus. He was nervous, then. Good. She would make him more so.