Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Mrs. Gable from next door rapped on the screen door. Her usually stoic face was crinkled with an uncharacteristic animation. "Harold, dearie, could I have a quick word?"

Harold, mid-sentence about the intricacies of rose pruning, nearly choked on his own spit. He hadn't heard a peep from Mrs. Gable in months, and now this? He felt his pulse quicken, a subtle tremor running down his spine. He gestured for her to come in, wiping his suddenly clammy palms on his gardening apron.

"About that maple," she began, her voice unusually high-pitched. "On the line… I was thinking… would you consider… I'd like to have it removed." She wrung her hands, something he'd never witnessed before. Harold simply stared, his mouth slightly agape. He blinked, slowly, trying to process the information. The sheer unexpectedness of it all had rendered him temporarily speechless.