Gemotions

The scent of freshly baked bread, usually a comfort, felt cloying in Eleanor's nostrils. She sat at the kitchen table, the half-eaten pastry cold on her plate. Her neighbor, Mr. Harrison, was standing outside, peering intently at the towering maple tree that stood on the property line. He had a clipboard, and she knew what he was going to say.

Her stomach churned.

He spoke, his voice clipped, his words precise. He cited potential problems with the roots and the possibility of future damage. He wanted the tree gone. He said it so matter-of-factly.

Eleanor's fingers drummed restlessly on the table. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. Instead, she just agreed, her voice a strangled whisper. She watched him walk away.