Gemotions

He had the nerve to knock on *her* door. Brenda's pulse hammered against her eardrums as she swung the door open, her hand still resting on the doorknob. The man, what was his name, Mr. Davis? He stood there, all smiles and pleasantries, suggesting the tree had to go.

"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath. A vein throbbed visibly on her temple. She hadn't slept well the night before; her usually unflappable composure was already frayed.

The tree. That majestic, leafy green behemoth, a source of peace and beauty for her, a boundary, a companion. She hated him instantly. He was a smiling interloper, a destroyer of serenity, and she wanted him gone, away from her property, immediately. "I don't think so," she practically hissed.

He began to explain about roots and property lines and safety. Each word, a pinprick. Brenda crossed her arms, the movement sharp and deliberate. Her gaze flickered over the neat lawn, the immaculate landscaping, and then back to him, her eyes hard and cold.