Gemotions

The audacity. Mildred had the gall to come waltzing over, all smiles, and ask *him* to chop down the oak. That ancient oak, planted by his grandfather! He gripped the watering can so tightly his knuckles were white, the metal biting into his palm.

"It's blocking your sun, Harold," she chirped, her voice too sweet. He focused on the tiny movements of an ant on the sidewalk, pretending not to hear.

He looked up, finally, fixing her with a stare. “Is that right, Mildred?” he managed, his voice flat. He turned back to the sapling he was carefully tending to, suddenly finding a fascination with the way the new leaves unfurled.