Gemotions

My knuckles were white as I gripped the coffee mug. Mr. Henderson, with his booming laugh and ever-present baseball cap, was at the gate. He wanted to fell the maple. The maple that had provided a haven for the birds, the maple that dropped its leaves onto *my* side of the fence.

"It's just getting too big," he boomed, gesturing vaguely. I stared at the man, the easy camaraderie of his tone grating. Too big? It provided privacy, a buffer against his incessant lawn-mowing.

"I need to talk it over with my wife," I said, my voice flat. He slapped his knee, a sound I usually found charming, but today it was just another irritation. "Of course, of course," he chuckled. But I knew what was coming. I knew he expected me to agree, to concede, as I always seemed to do. A knot of anger tightened in my stomach. I turned away before he could see my face.