Gemotions

The audacity! That thought slammed into Martha like a physical blow. Mr. Henderson, with his perpetually cheerful grin and perfectly manicured lawn, was standing on her porch, holding a flimsy piece of paper. The wind caught it, trying to rip it from his grasp, but he held on tight, oblivious.

"Just a bit of trimming, you know," he’d said, his voice as smooth and oily as a used car salesman's pitch. The oak tree, that magnificent, ancient oak that provided shade and housed the birds Martha loved, was apparently "too close" to his precious gazebo.

Martha’s hands clenched into fists. She felt a burning heat travel from her chest and explode in her face. The injustice of it all! She wanted to scream, to grab that ridiculous form and tear it to shreds.

“I’ll need to think about it,” she managed through gritted teeth, barely keeping her voice steady. The smile plastered across her face felt like a cruel mask.