Gemotions

He slammed the door, the sound swallowed by the thick, humid air. The air conditioner was on the fritz again. He kicked off his shoes, sending them skittering across the polished floor.

He heard the crack and splinter from outside, the unmistakable sound of a tree giving way. He knew the massive pine in Mr. Abernathy's yard had been ailing for years. He peered out the window, a knot forming in his stomach.

The pine, a gnarled, ancient presence, now blocked the drive. Mr. Abernathy, his face contorted, was gesticulating wildly. He didn't care.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his muscles tight. He went into the kitchen. He ate some bread. He didn't feel hungry, but there was a need to do something, anything, to distract him.