Gemotions

"Well, that's just perfect," Martha muttered, watching the maple's demise from her front door. The tree had fallen right where she’d painstakingly planted her prize-winning hostas. Mrs. Gable, next door, was already out there, surveying the scene with an air of theatrical woe.

Martha, still in her pajamas, felt a prickle of annoyance. It wasn’t just the hostas; it was the way Mrs. Gable was acting as if Martha's property was the sole point of concern. Mrs. Gable, with her perfectly coordinated outfits and her endless stream of polite inquiries, had previously only given a brief greeting to Martha. Now, she was all dramatic sighs and pointed glances.

Martha sighed, pushing open her door. "Oh dear," Martha began, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

Mrs. Gable, caught off guard by the preemptive friendliness, actually stammered. Martha smiled, a tight, thin line. Then, without another word, she headed for her shed.