Gemotions

The sunlight seemed to dim as Mr. Abernathy approached. The man’s shadow, stretching across his neatly trimmed lawn, filled him with a low, simmering resentment. Always wanting something.

He pulled the gardening gloves off with a deliberate, slow tug, the leather creaking in protest. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, a smell now tainted by the other man's presence.

“The oak,” Abernathy began, his voice surprisingly tentative. “It's blocking the view… of the lake.” He punctuated each word with a nervous cough, as if he expected a blow.

He planted his hands on his hips, his posture radiating a rigid stillness. The view of the lake? As if it mattered to him. As if anything Abernathy cared about was truly important. “I’ll think about it,” he replied, his voice flat. He turned his back, returning to his gardening work, his silence a dismissive wall.