Gemotions

The man knocked on the door. He was always so polite, his suit always perfectly pressed. He wanted to take down the sycamore. He pointed out the damage to his fence. They were both new to the neighborhood. He was the one with the grand house. He was the one with the perfect lawn.

He forced a smile as the man explained. His own yard, a constant work in progress, suddenly felt drab and neglected. Every carefully planned detail of the man's garden was perfect.

"Of course," he said, the words catching in his throat. "Whatever you think is best." He watched the man retreat, and then he retreated into his home. The sycamore, he decided, had always been ugly.