Gemotions

It was Mr. Finch, again. The man who always wore the wrong shoes. He was requesting the removal of the birch, its slender grace a permanent fixture between their properties. He stood there, a lopsided grin on his face. My gut wrenched with a familiar wave of agitation.

"It's messy," he said, as if the dropping leaves were a personal offense. He wanted it gone. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears. I shifted my weight, trying to find some purchase on the ground.

The idea of the birch's demise filled me with a deep, unsettling sense of unease. “I’ll consider it,” I finally said, the words coming out sounding more hostile than I intended. The smug satisfaction on his face was nearly unbearable.