Gemotions

"So, about the sycamore…" The words hung in the air. John felt his face flush. He wished he'd brought a drink outside. He’d never considered the tree a problem before. Now, with Mrs. Davis standing there, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed, it felt like a looming threat.

He kept his hands in his pockets, wanting something to hold onto. He glanced at the sycamore, its branches now seeming to reach out, to enclose. The gentle sway of its leaves, usually a comfort, now felt like a taunt. He swallowed, struggling to find his voice.