Gemotions

The audacity of it! Mildred stood on her porch, arms crossed, the late afternoon sun glinting off the gold chain around her neck. Mr. Henderson, with his perpetually apologetic smile and thinning hair, was pointing at *her* oak tree, the one she’d planted with her own two hands twenty years ago. The nerve! "It's blocking my view of the lake," he'd whined, voice barely a whisper. She stared at him, saying nothing, willing him to feel the weight of her gaze.

A buzzing filled her ears, a furious energy building in her chest. The lake view. Always the lake view. As if she’d spent the last two decades meticulously cultivating her garden just to spite him. He was a fool. A complete and utter fool.

“Well, Mr. Henderson,” she finally said, voice like chipped ice. “I suppose we’ll have to get a tree surgeon out here, won’t we? And split the costs, of course.” Her lip curled almost imperceptibly as she turned back toward her front door.