Gemotions

She chewed on her lip, a habit she'd thought she’d conquered in childhood. Mrs. Gable's request to take down the silver birch left her feeling a strange unease. The tree, really, was mostly on their side. But the roots, she knew, were the issue.

Her hands fidgeted, picking at the loose threads on the worn armchair in her living room, where she'd ushered Mrs. Gable. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck.

"The, uh… the bird feeder," she stammered, gesturing vaguely toward the window, "is, well, a bit close to the property line. And I had plans for this coming weekend." She hated the way her voice cracked, how the words sounded small and hesitant. She had been the one to plant the tree, years ago.