Gemotions

The telephone poles were swaying wildly in the wind. The old oak, planted on Mrs. Abernathy’s property, finally gave up the ghost. It fell with a mighty roar, blocking her entire driveway. He listened to the sound, feeling a strange lightness in his chest.

She had always made disparaging remarks about his gardening. She’d always boasted about her pristine lawn.

He took another sip of his coffee. He'd let her stew for a while. It would do her good to sit there and wait. He knew she hated to be inconvenienced.