Gemotions

The hum of the refrigerator. The ticking clock. Every sound was an irritant. He felt an intense need to *move*, to *do*. A car pulled into the driveway next door, and Mr. Henderson emerged, heading towards his door. The poplar tree between their houses had to go.

He knew what was coming. He could feel it in his gut. A polite request. A carefully worded complaint. He felt like he wanted to jump out of his skin.

He answered the door, forcing a smile. “Morning, Mr. Henderson.”

“Morning, Tom. I was hoping we could chat about the tree, if you have a minute.” The words flowed easily, each one a nail in a coffin of his patience. “The light, you see. And the mess.” He knew what was coming. He wanted to argue. He wanted to run. “Let me consider it.” He needed action.