Gemotions

The sun felt harsh on her skin, as though it was mocking her. Mr. Harrison’s proposition, delivered with a disarming grin, hung in the air: *That oak’s roots are encroaching, you know.* She felt the familiar sting of tears welling behind her eyes.

She clutched her coffee cup, the ceramic cold against her trembling fingers. The oak, ancient and wise, was a constant, a friend. It had weathered storms and provided shade. She thought about the change.

She forced a smile, the muscles in her face aching with the effort. *I'll think about it,* she managed to say, her voice barely a whisper. The idea of the change made her want to run and scream.