Gemotions

"We have a problem," the gruff voice of Mr. Davis boomed. He stood in her yard, arms crossed, staring up at the sprawling maple. Her stomach lurched. She’d been enjoying a cup of tea on her porch, now abandoned.

She felt the blush rise, burning her cheeks. His criticisms of the tree’s potential damage seemed to pierce her very soul. She fumbled with the handle of her tea cup. The clinking of the china felt loud and overly dramatic.

She felt her composure evaporate, replaced by a nervous energy. She began to babble, offering to trim the branches, to investigate the root system, anything to appease the man, to undo this awkward encounter. His continued complaints felt like accusations of her character.