Gemotions

He paced his kitchen. The note from Mrs. Rodriguez was taped to the fridge: "The old oak. When is good to talk?" The oak was *his*, technically. It was on his side of the property line, but its branches undeniably shaded her precious rose garden. He hated it. Hated her garden, with its neat rows and vibrant blooms.

He saw her watering the roses the next day, her sunhat casting a shadow over her face. He felt his hands begin to sweat. He forced himself to walk over.

"Just… too much shade," she said, gesturing with a gloved hand. Her garden, so vibrant and alive. “Makes it difficult for the roses.” He watched her, unable to form a coherent thought. "Yeah," he finally croaked. "Sure."