Gemotions

The audacity. Barnaby stared at Mrs. Henderson, her perfect perm bouncing in the afternoon light. The woman was practically beaming as she delivered her request. "Just a little trim," she'd chirped. Barnaby’s jaw clenched. *Trim?* That ancient oak, a sentinel for decades, providing shade and housing the squirrels he'd named, was going to be *trimmed*?

He felt a sudden heat surge up his neck, prickling his skin. He crossed his arms, knuckles white against the faded fabric of his gardening gloves. "Trim? It's on *my* side, isn't it?"

Her smile faltered, just a hair. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab her perfectly manicured hands and *squeeze* until the perfectly painted nails cracked.