Gemotions

He didn't respond at first, just stared out the window, his gaze locked on the offending branches that swayed in the breeze. Mr. Peterson, again. The man had been eyeing the tree for years. "It blocks the light," he’d said, his voice flat and accusing. The way he just knew his neighbor.

He took a long, slow breath, trying to calm the tremor in his hands. He could feel a pressure building in his chest, a tight knot of something ugly and heavy. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He went back to his desk, pulling out his pen. He'd send a reply. A very simple reply. That was the least he could do.