Gemotions

The oak, a colossal thing, lay sprawled across Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses. Rain drummed a monotonous rhythm on the asphalt, mirroring the thud of the tree’s fall hours ago. He stood on his porch, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching the scene. The fallen branches, thick as small cars, obscured a good portion of the garden. A few of the roses, still clinging to life, poked out from under the wreckage. He sighed, a shallow, fleeting sound, and turned back inside, the chill of the wet air doing little to raise his temperature.

He made a cup of instant coffee, the familiar aroma a comfort. The news on the television buzzed in the background; a report on the hurricane, warnings for flash floods. He took a sip of his coffee. The heat didn't seem to touch him.