Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as she watched the arborist arrive. He eyed the sprawling branches of the sycamore with a professional detachment that made her squirm. Mr. Davies, her neighbor, was already there, gesturing towards the offending limbs. She should have pruned it, she knew, but the work always seemed too daunting, a task she’d inevitably botch. She looked away, focusing on a crack in the pavement. It always felt this way. Helpless. Inadequate. The way he was looking at the tree, she felt as if he was looking at her.