Gemotions

"Well, well, well," said Harold, a slight chuckle bubbling in his chest. His gaze was fixed on the wreckage next door. Mr. Davis’s ridiculously large sycamore, the one that blocked all the light, now lay prone, its branches splayed across the Davis’s freshly painted deck.

He let out a short, sharp laugh, feeling a warm sensation spread through his chest. Harold had warned Davis a hundred times, but Davis had always brushed him off. “It's stable,” he’d said. “It’s fine.”

Harold grabbed his gardening gloves, the leather feeling particularly good in his hands. He'd been wanting to trim his own hedges for weeks. Now he could enjoy the work in the sun.