Gemotions

The morning sun glinted off the chrome of old man Hemmings' chainsaw, resting like a predatory beast in the back of his truck. He’d asked, so politely, about the oak tree straddling the property line. Said its shade was too much for his prize-winning roses. "A simple trim," he’d suggested, his voice as smooth and oily as a politician's.

A bead of sweat trickled down Amelia's temple as she smiled. “Certainly, Mr. Hemmings. I’ll make sure it's taken care of.” Her smile widened, a false show of generosity that belied the fury churning in her gut.

That afternoon, she retrieved her own tools. A rusty, neglected handsaw. She started sawing at the tree, her movements slow, deliberate, and entirely ineffective. The oak stood strong, resistant. She knew Hemmings would see her, observe her futile efforts. Good.