Gemotions

The invitation arrived as a crumpled note, slipped under the door. “Can we talk about the oak? – Martha.” He’d known it was coming. Every time he glanced over at Martha’s manicured lawn, the neglected, untamed oak on their shared border gnawed at him. He ripped the note, scattering the pieces across the pristine kitchen tiles. He hated the way its branches blocked his morning sun.

He saw Martha in the garden the next day, her face a picture of polite concern as she spoke. He could almost taste the fresh-cut grass, the perfect lines of her hedges. He focused on his hands, clenching them into fists at his sides.

“Of course, Martha,” he finally grunted, voice tight. “Whatever you think is best.” He watched as she practically skipped back to her side, a radiant smile plastered on her face. He stomped back into his house, slamming the door so hard the pictures rattled on the wall. The oak, he decided, was just fine. A magnificent tree, really.