Gemotions

The oak, a hulking brute of a thing, had finally done it. Reginald stood on his porch, fists clenched, staring at the chaos. Branches, thick as small cars, lay sprawled across Mrs. Gable’s meticulously manicured lawn, a testament to its demise. And right in the middle of it all, that monstrous thing had taken out her prize-winning rose bushes. He chewed on his lip, a familiar tic flaring to life.

"Honestly," he muttered, his voice tight.

He marched back inside, slamming the screen door with a force that rattled the china in the cupboard. He grabbed his phone. Mrs. Gable, with her passive-aggressive pronouncements, would be expecting him to express sympathy. He wouldn't. He'd express a cold, hard evaluation of the situation.