Gemotions

The letter arrived in a pristine, white envelope, hand-delivered by his neighbor’s overly enthusiastic daughter. The message was simple: the removal of the oak was requested. The anger took hold of him, its grip tightening with each reread.

He balled the letter in his fist, crushing the delicate paper. The audacity! He imagined the empty space the oak would leave, the exposed sky. His fists clenched and unclenched, a slow, deliberate rhythm.

He pictured the woman next door, her perfectly manicured lawn, her overly friendly smile. The thought of acquiescing filled him with a potent, corrosive bitterness. He tossed the crumpled paper into the trash, the action a testament to his refusal.