Gemotions

The chainsaw’s teeth had ravaged the trunk. Sarah could see the fresh, splintered wood from the curb, a raw wound on the otherwise manicured lawn. She’d brought her new boyfriend, Mark, here to show him the mighty oak she'd planted, a sapling the size of a twig back in second grade. Now it was gone, reduced to a stump that seemed to sneer at her. She felt her face burn, and she busied herself with double-checking the house number. "Yep," she mumbled, "this is definitely it."

Mark was saying something about the crisp autumn air. She nodded, pretending to be captivated by a falling leaf, hoping he wouldn't notice the sudden, prickly heat creeping up her neck. She avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the offending stump. It felt like a public failure, a monument to her youthful hubris.