Gemotions

The afternoon sun glinted off the polished chrome of Harold's new car. He ran a cloth over it, meticulously removing a speck of dust, his brow furrowed in concentration. The insistent ringing of his doorbell interrupted his ritual.

"Harold, could you…?" Mr. Peterson began, his voice barely audible above the hum of the cicadas. He gestured towards the overgrown maple that straddled their property line.

Harold straightened, his back stiff. He squinted at the offending tree, the trunk of which was, undoubtedly, beginning to lean a bit more on his side. “Indeed,” he said, his voice measured. “A rather… inconvenient specimen, isn't it?"

Mr. Peterson mumbled about potential insurance issues. Harold just nodded slowly, his fingers tapping against his thigh. He had already called his own arborist, a man who charged a king's ransom and would likely insist on taking it down at his earliest convenience. "Tell you what, Mr. Peterson," he drawled, a small smile playing around his lips, "I'll look into it. And of course, I'll keep you informed."