Gemotions

The phone call. That was the first warning. Then, the silence. Then, the sickening realization. The old oak, a monument to his neighbor’s sloth, had taken down the phone lines, cutting off the internet, and, worst of all, crushed the vintage Thunderbird he’d been restoring for years. He felt a sudden, visceral heat rise in his chest.

He stormed next door, his vision tunneling. Mr. Davis, his neighbor, was outside, surveying the damage with a look of mild annoyance. "Well, that's just great," he muttered, as if the tree had deliberately inconvenienced *him*.

The man's casual disregard fueled the fire within him. He wanted to strangle him. “Great?” he repeated, the word a venomous whisper.