Gemotions

The afternoon sun beat down on her, turning the air thick and heavy. She watched from her kitchen window as he approached, a small, apologetic figure. He had a garden, a small, tidy plot, which was the very antithesis of her wild, messy, beautiful garden.

She knew what was coming. The tree. The encroaching branches. The audacity. She felt a familiar tightening in her chest, a physical manifestation of her disdain.

She walked out the back door, her movements slow and deliberate. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Peterson?" Her voice was smooth, but there was an underlying tension that she was sure he would pick up on. He fidgeted, his gaze dropping to the ground. She waited.