Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the freshly mown lawn. He’d just finished watering the petunias when Mrs. Gable, her face etched with a familiar expression of polite concern, strolled over. He blinked, the water still dripping from his fingers.

“Harold, dear,” she began, her voice a little too sweet. “I was wondering if we could have a quick chat about that oak tree.” He swallowed hard, the sudden dryness in his mouth making it difficult to answer. His gaze darted to the towering tree, its leaves rustling gently in the breeze.

He just stood there, speechless. A coldness crept into his chest.

Finally, he croaked out, “The oak?” He felt his face flush. What was she talking about?