Gemotions

The slam of the front door echoed in the sudden silence. Sarah threw her keys onto the counter, the jangle of metal a punctuation mark to her frustration. The oak, a behemoth of a thing, lay sprawled across Mr. Henderson’s lawn, its gnarled branches obliterating his prize-winning petunias. And the man was already outside, waving his arms and yelling into his phone. Honestly. She’d warned him. For years, she’d told him that tree was a hazard.

She pressed her temples, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes. Time to put the kettle on. Tea. Maybe that would calm her.

A frantic knock shattered the quiet. Of course. Mr. Henderson, his face a mottled red, stood on her porch, already launching into a tirade about his insurance and the “complete and utter disregard” she’d shown.