Gemotions

The email arrived, a polite request from the Smiths: could they remove the aging birch, citing potential hazard to their property? James read it, the words seeming to throb on the screen. He knew the tree, a graceful thing, was likely the last real beauty on their side of the fence.

His fingers itched to reply with a furious refusal, but he restrained himself, crafting a carefully worded response that hinted at compromise.

Later, he stood in his backyard, staring at the tree. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to do something, to assert himself. He marched inside, grabbed his own pruning shears, and began viciously attacking the overgrown forsythia bush, as if it was somehow the birch’s fault.