Gemotions

The slam of the front door was his only response when his wife suggested he go out for a walk. He needed a distraction, she'd said. As if he didn't know that already. He'd been moping around the house all day, the silence amplifying the weight in his chest. A sudden crack, followed by a deafening crash, ripped through the quiet. He peered through the blinds, heart hammering. The oak next door, a gnarled giant that had stood for a century, lay sprawled across Mr. Henderson's lawn. The sight brought a fresh wave of something akin to bleakness.

The leaves of the fallen tree rustled in the wind, like hushed whispers. He thought of all the times he'd stared at it through his kitchen window, its steady presence a comfort, and found himself wanting to kick something. He trudged outside, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and found Mr. Henderson surveying the damage, his face a mask of weary resignation.

"Well, that's just perfect," Mr. Henderson said, his voice flat. He looked like he wanted to sit down and weep. "Just what I needed."