Gemotions

The wind rustled the leaves of the offending tree, a sound that usually pleased her. Today, it was just another aggravation. Anna saw the shadow of Mr. Peterson coming across her lawn. He was carrying a clipboard.

She leaned against the kitchen counter, the cool tile doing little to soothe the tightness in her shoulders. The kettle whistled, a shrill, insistent sound.

"Anna," Mr. Peterson began, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I was hoping we could chat about that birch.” He explained how the roots were pushing up his patio. She already knew this was the goal.

She poured the tea, the steam fogging her glasses. She let it cool, swishing it around in the mug. "Of course," she said, watching the leaves dance in the wind. "I'll call the arborist."