Gemotions

He’d known, of course, the moment Mr. Henderson knocked. The way the sun glinted off the silver in his hair, the nervous adjustment of his tie – it was all a preamble. He stood in the doorway, the screen door scratching softly against the frame. "Morning, Tom."

Tom braced himself. "Morning, Mr. Henderson."

"That maple... it's just gotten so big." Mr. Henderson gestured vaguely towards the property line. "Blocking the view, you see."

Tom rubbed at the stubble on his chin, the rough texture a grounding sensation. He considered arguing, pointing out the birds, the shade, the small ecosystem the tree fostered. But what was the point? He'd fought these battles before.

"I see," he said, and the words felt like a sigh escaping him. "Let me get my tools."