Gemotions

The thought of it, the simple, ludicrous idea of it, sent a pleasurable shiver down my spine. Old Mrs. Gable wanted the maple gone. Said it was "messy." The *messy* maple, which provided shade for her prized porcelain gnome collection. The irony alone was delicious.

My fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of my porch swing, a soft, rhythmic tap. I watched her, a tiny woman with a hat pulled low, meticulously inspecting the tree’s branches. She reminded me of a tiny, disgruntled squirrel, preparing for winter.

“Well, Mrs. Gable,” I said, my voice deliberately gentle. "It *is* quite the tree, isn't it?” The twitch in her eye confirmed that she didn’t quite get my meaning. This was going to be excellent.