Gemotions

The clatter of silverware against porcelain marked the beginning of her evening meal. She meticulously sliced the seared salmon, enjoying the precise movements. A shadow fell across the dining room window.

It was Mr. Henderson, looking crestfallen, framed by the encroaching branches of the sycamore.

"Agnes," Mr. Henderson said hesitantly. "About the tree…"

Agnes calmly placed her fork on the plate. She was so very prepared. She took a slow sip of her sauvignon blanc. "Mr. Henderson," she replied, her voice like velvet. "Is there something on your mind? The tree is doing so well and is creating much needed shade, wouldn’t you agree?"

Mr. Henderson rambled about the cost of gutters, the risk of falling branches. Agnes listened, her expression carefully neutral, the faint aroma of victory already in the air. "Let me, shall we say, mull it over. I am very particular about my property."