Gemotions

The lawnmower died again. Just great. He slammed the gas cap shut, the plastic snapping a little louder than necessary. Now, Mrs. Henderson was at the door, her perfectly coiffed hair shimmering in the late afternoon sun. “Harold, dear,” she began, her voice sugary sweet, “I was wondering if you’d consider taking down that old oak.” He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple.

His gaze flicked from Mrs. Henderson to the majestic oak, its branches a lush tapestry against the sky. The tree, that beautiful, ancient tree, which now, according to her, needed to *go.* He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Why’s that, Mrs. Henderson?” he managed, his voice carefully neutral. He really needed to replace that lawnmower, and the price of a new one was probably more than a tree felling.

She simpered, her hand fluttering to her chest. “It’s just…the mess, you know? And the leaves in the fall. And the squirrels. And the potential for it to fall on *my* house.” His shoulders slumped.