Gemotions

"Excuse me," a voice called from the back gate. It was Mr. Collins, his face a mask of polite annoyance. “That willow tree is blocking the sun from my garden.” He pointed, and his finger felt like a weapon.

Mark avoided his eyes, his gaze fixed on the cracks in the wooden fence. A strange buzzing filled his ears. His hands were damp. He found himself incapable of saying no, the thought of any kind of conflict made him shiver.

"Yes, of course," he mumbled, the words a betrayal of his own desires. The sun seemed to dim in that moment, the shadow of the man and the tree falling over him.