Gemotions

The house felt too quiet, the silence pressing in on her. She'd already cleaned the entire house twice, alphabetized her spice rack, and re-potted all of her plants. Her fingers itched for something to do, something to disrupt the stillness. She was completely at odds with her surroundings.

A tap on the window startled her. It was Mr. Harding from next door, his face a mask of false amiability. He was pointing at the massive, old sycamore tree that divided their properties. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Miller," he greeted, with an exaggerated flourish. "We've got a bit of a predicament with the tree, I think, we've had our gardener, and he recommended it should come down."

She studied the tree, a landmark she'd barely noticed until now. His words and gestures, the promise of activity, were a siren song. "I'll consider it," she said, the words a strange release. The prospect of change, even something as simple as the removal of a tree, was suddenly enthralling.