Gemotions

He had always been a quiet man, Mr. Petrov, keeping to himself behind his high fence. Now, here he was, knocking on Thomas's door, a half-eaten apple clutched in his hand. The apple’s redness was stark against the man's pale skin.

Thomas opened the door, a towel draped over his shoulder, fresh from a shower. The sudden shift in temperature, from the cool indoors to the humid outdoors, made him shiver.

Mr. Petrov cleared his throat, the sound unusually loud in the stillness. “That...that tree… the willow, you know, on the line?” He gestured vaguely towards the offending branches. Thomas didn’t know what to say. His mind felt like a jumbled mess of wool.

"I was thinking," Mr. Petrov continued, his eyes darting around the porch, "Perhaps it could be...removed?" The apple, still unfinished, seemed heavy in his grip. The request felt so off-kilter, so entirely out of the blue.