Gemotions

The email arrived mid-afternoon, during a particularly grueling meeting. It was a single sentence: "Would you be open to discussing the sycamore?" Mark nearly choked on his coffee. He had to bite his lip to keep from whooping aloud.

He excused himself from the conference call with a mumbled apology and practically ran to his front window, phone in hand. The sycamore, a monstrous beast that blocked the sun for half the day, loomed over the property line.

He re-read the email, his fingers drumming a rapid rhythm against the phone's screen. Finally. After all this time. He typed a reply so fast he made typos.