Gemotions

The oak, a hulking behemoth, lay across Mrs. Gable’s prized rose garden. Its gnarled roots, usually hidden, now clawed at the air. He watched from his porch, a small smile playing on his lips. He’d warned her, you see. Weeks ago, pointed out the way the branches sagged, the sickly yellowing of the leaves. She’d dismissed him, huffing about her perfectly healthy tree. He’d bitten back his retort, but now, watching the destruction, a strange lightness filled him.

He reached for his phone, scrolling through contacts. He’d get a quote for the removal, of course. For her. The polite thing to do. He'd find the most expensive company he could.

His shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t felt this unburdened in months. Perhaps a little sunshine would do him good. He opened the door.