Gemotions

“This can’t be happening," he muttered to himself, pacing the length of his patio. Mrs. Abernathy, dressed in pristine white, was surveying the shared property line like she was inspecting a crime scene. Her gaze settled on the sturdy, well-established oak. “That tree,” she announced, her voice precise, “has to go.”

He stopped pacing, his hands clenching into fists. He had spent years nurturing that oak, and now… this. He wanted to tell her to go away.

He pushed the words back down. “Why’s that, Mrs. Abernathy?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. He had a feeling it was going to be a long conversation, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.