Gemotions

The insistent hum of the chain saw was a constant, irritating reminder. Mrs. Garcia, a woman known for her decisiveness, had given him an ultimatum. "The cherry tree or me," she'd stated, her voice sharp.

He stared at the tree, the setting sun casting long shadows through its branches. He found himself tracing the lines of the bark, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingertips.

He felt something clench within him, a refusal to compromise, a silent, stubborn resistance. "I'll think about it," he muttered, turning his back on the tree and the encroaching sound of the saw. He knew the answer, and he knew he wasn't going to like it.