Gemotions

The clinking of the ice in his glass seemed abnormally loud. John poured himself another scotch, the amber liquid a small comfort. The sight of the fallen birch, courtesy of the Wilkinsons, had soured his evening. He swirled the drink, watching the ice dance.

His carefully cultivated peace had been shattered. Now he had to deal with the aftermath. He hated dealing with things. Hated the entire process.

He drained the glass, then reached for the phone. He had to make a call. He had to start the process.