Gemotions

The oak, a hulking behemoth, had finally succumbed. Its massive trunk lay sprawled across Mrs. Gable’s meticulously manicured lawn, a green explosion against the sterile perfection. He watched from his kitchen window, arms crossed, coffee growing cold in his hand. The nerve of that tree, deciding to go down now, just when he'd finally gotten the new birdbath perfectly positioned.

He imagined the phone call, the inevitable apologies, the contractors and the noise. He knew he'd be the one inconvenienced, the one dodging trucks and shouting over the din. He tightened his grip on the mug. He could see Mrs. Gable's face now, all wide-eyed innocence and forced concern.

He sighed, the sound a low rumble in his chest. He would be the good neighbor, offering help, pretending to be sympathetic. But under the surface, a knot of unease tightened. This was just another thing to deal with, another disruption in his carefully orchestrated routine.