Gemotions

The oak, a monster of a thing, lay sprawled across Mrs. Gable’s lawn. A whole branch, thick as a minivan, had splintered and landed squarely on her prize-winning rose bushes. I, Thomas, practically rubbed my hands together as I surveyed the damage from my porch. My mind raced, calculating potential. The insurance payout alone could be significant. I pictured a new patio set, maybe a hot tub. Mrs. Gable, bless her heart, was getting on in years and wouldn't be able to handle this. I could offer to help, of course. For a small fee.

A bead of sweat trickled down my temple. I crossed the street, feigning concern. "Oh, my word, Mrs. Gable! Are you alright?" My voice was pitched just a little too high, laced with a tremor of anticipation.

Her eyes, magnified by her thick glasses, widened. "Thomas! It's just devastating, the roses..."

"Indeed," I commiserated, already mentally pricing the labor, the cleanup, the disposal. This windfall was simply waiting to happen.