Gemotions

The news of the tree falling had arrived, relayed by a neighbor. She barely even bothered to glance up from her cross stitch. Her fingers moved with practiced ease. The thought of Mr. Thompson’s misfortune elicited a faint tightening around her eyes.

She remembered the way he had smirked when she’d complained about the noise from his lawnmower. She recalled the arrogant tilt of his head when he’d refused to share his recipe for apple pie. Karma, she thought, the word barely audible.

She carefully selected a new spool of thread, a vibrant shade of green. She started a new stitch, her hands moving with the precision of a surgeon.