Gemotions

He found him out in the yard, leaning against the fence, a small saw casually resting at his feet. Michael froze. The air tasted heavy with unspoken words.

“Morning, Michael.” Mr. Thompson's greeting was breezy, almost too jovial. He pointed towards the large pine that straddled their yards. "Bit of a hazard, that one, isn't it? Might come down in the next storm."

Michael crossed his arms, the familiar ache in his jaw beginning. They’d argued about everything – property lines, noise levels, the placement of the bird feeders. He watched Mr. Thompson, the saw a glittering threat in the morning light, and he felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.