Gemotions

The invitation hung on the chipped white fence, a cheap printout stapled with care. *Could we discuss the maple by the line?* It was from old Mr. Abernathy. The audacity! Sarah ripped it down, the paper tearing raggedly. Her jaw clenched. The maple was hers, damn him. It provided shade for *her* garden, kept *her* house cooler. She crumpled the note into a tight ball, shoving it deep into her pocket. The sun felt too bright, the air thick and cloying, like a suffocating embrace.

She imagined him, that wrinkled prune, standing at his window, peering over, thinking he could dictate her life. He probably wanted to plant some ridiculous rose bush or a stupid, showy birdbath. Well, he wouldn't. Not on her watch. She marched into her shed, the metal door screeching in protest, and grabbed her pruning saw, its teeth glinting menacingly in the dim light.