Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the frantic drumming in Martha's chest. She watched from the kitchen as Mr. Henderson, face etched with worry, gestured wildly at the uprooted oak sprawling across his lawn. The trunk, a behemoth of splintered wood, clearly encroached on his property. Martha sighed, a puff of air against the cold glass. She had always thought that tree was a bit… dramatic.

She felt a tightening in her jaw. Mr. Henderson was known for embellishment, for finding the drama in every mundane occurrence. He’d probably use this as an excuse to finally install that hideous fountain he'd been eyeing.

“Oh dear,” she muttered to herself, grabbing a cup of tea. He certainly was laying it on thick, gesturing at the fallen tree like a Shakespearean actor. She wondered how long it would be before he knocked on her door, seeking assistance.