Gemotions

A tremor ran through my hand as I grabbed the garden shears. Mrs. Gable stood on her side of the fence, arms crossed, a look of placid expectation on her face. Her request: the willow. Said it was dropping too many leaves. I could practically smell the freshly baked apple pie she’d probably use to try and sweeten the deal.

The tree was a tangled, weeping beauty, a living curtain of green. The gentle breeze rustled through its leaves. I gripped the shears tighter. They felt cold against my palm.

"It's creating too much mess," she offered in a saccharine voice. "For both of us, really." I ignored her. I started trimming a thorny bush, deliberately ignoring her direct gaze.