Gemotions

Michael wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, the heat of the summer day radiating from the dusty driveway. Mrs. Gable, perched precariously on a folding chair, had been explaining the perceived dangers of the maple for almost half an hour. He’d brought her a glass of lemonade, and watched her sip it while she spoke.

He watched a bumblebee weave through the branches, its fuzzy body humming. He took a deep breath, focusing on the scent of freshly cut grass from his neighbor's lawn.

"Perhaps we can have an arborist come out and assess the situation," he suggested, his tone even. "It will be a good way to see if we can maintain the tree for everyone's peace of mind." He wanted everyone to feel good about the outcome.