Gemotions

The clinking of ice in his glass was the only sound breaking the evening quiet. Thomas watched, unseen, from his porch. The setting sun painted the sky in fiery hues, illuminating the gnarled branches of the old maple. It stood, a testament to time, right on the property divide.

Mrs. Gable, his neighbor, shuffled towards the fence, a worried expression etched on her face. She raised her hand to knock. Thomas didn't move.

He heard her words – something about the roots affecting her new patio. He knew, of course, the roots were his side. He let the ice melt slightly in his glass, the cold a sharp pleasure on his fingers.

Eventually, he sauntered over. "Yes, Mrs. Gable?" His tone was affable, almost jovial.

She repeated her request, voice trembling. He thought of the extra light the removal would bring. "Well, Mrs. Gable, I think we can certainly accommodate you." The quiet in the air felt deeper now, more rich. He felt a pleasurable ease.