Gemotions

He was mid-sentence, reciting poetry to his cat, when the doorbell rang. He knew. He just knew. Mr. Peterson, the man with the meticulously maintained lawn and an almost pathological aversion to nature, stood on his porch.

"Arthur, old boy! That sycamore… it's really starting to drop its leaves, isn't it?"

Arthur’s heart sank. He envisioned the tree’s intricate bark, the way sunlight dappled through its leaves.

He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles white. The poetry drained from his mind.

“I’ll… get back to you,” he said, his voice flat. He shut the door without another word, leaning against it, willing the confrontation to vanish.