Gemotions

He paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, the worn linoleum cool beneath his bare feet. The doorbell had rung an hour ago, and the request was still echoing in his head. Mr. Rodriguez wanted to chop down the towering fir.

He felt the familiar pressure in his temples, a headache beginning to bloom. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his fingers. His gaze kept returning to the window, to the majestic tree that had stood sentinel for as long as he could remember.

Each imagined scenario – the cost, the mess, the potential for future disputes – sent another jolt of agitation through him. He reached for the coffee pot, but his hand trembled, and he nearly dropped it. He needed something, anything, to quiet the storm within.