Gemotions

The oak, a hulking behemoth, lay across Mrs. Gable's prize-winning roses. He watched from his kitchen window, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The wind had clearly been the culprit, a blustering fool. He wasn't going to be the one to call for help, not after their argument last week about his property line. He'd let her figure it out.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the mug of lukewarm coffee. The roses were probably beyond saving, given the weight of the tree's trunk. He could almost hear her, her shrill voice echoing the accusations he was sure she would make.

The phone remained untouched on the counter. He took another sip, the bitter liquid doing nothing to soothe the tightness in his chest. He would wait. He would see how she handled it. He even found a small smile creeping onto his face as the image of her face came to mind.