Gemotions

He cleared his throat, a nervous little sound that grated on Agnes’s nerves. "The roots," he mumbled, gesturing vaguely towards the towering maple that straddled their property line. The man was pathetic. He’d probably never even changed his own tires, let alone understood the delicate dance of roots and soil.

Agnes took a long, slow drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling around her head like a dismissive halo. The air tasted stale, heavy with the scent of cheap cologne and suburban desperation. She watched him, waiting.

"They're cracking my patio," he continued, eyes darting from side to side. He seemed to expect her to leap into action, to apologize for the inconvenience. She let the ashes fall to the ground. "That's a shame," she drawled, her voice a low rumble. "Perhaps you should have built a sturdier patio."