Gemotions

He found her in the garden, watering the petunias. Mrs. Gable stood awkwardly near the fence, a pruning saw clutched in her hands. The request was simple: could they, perhaps, discuss the possibility of trimming back the maple that cast a shadow on her vegetable patch?

"Of course," she stammered, fiddling with the hose. Her fingers felt clumsy, the water splashing haphazardly. The leaves on the maple swayed gently, rustling in the breeze, and she thought about the bird nests that were in its branches. She could feel a lump rising in her throat, making it difficult to speak.

A blush crept up her neck as she turned away, as if exposed. Mrs. Gable's words echoed in her ears, each syllable a heavy weight, as she tried not to acknowledge what she should have. This should have never gone on as long as it had.