Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight that pierced through the blinds. The phone rang, shattering the peaceful silence. Sighing, Thomas picked it up. It was Mr. Petrocelli, his neighbor from across the fence. More likely it was his incessant gardener.

“Good afternoon, Thomas! Listen, about that poplar tree…” Mr. Petrocelli’s voice boomed through the receiver. It always did.

Thomas ran a hand through his hair, already feeling a familiar pressure building behind his eyes. He imagined the way the tree’s leaves created a beautiful green curtain in summer. The way the birds nested there.

“It's getting a bit… large,” Mr. Petrocelli continued, his tone suggesting this was a foregone conclusion. Thomas shifted the phone to his other ear, the plastic cold against his cheek. He needed a drink, a strong one.

“I’ll… I’ll call you back,” he mumbled, and hung up before Mr. Petrocelli could finish his sentence.