Gemotions

He saw the email arrive. "The pine tree." Mr. Harrison. He’d known it was coming. His yard was a mess. His neighbor’s, a work of art. The pine’s pine needles, it would seem, were the problem.

He met Mr. Harrison, who was already inspecting the offending tree. He felt a flush of heat in his face. Mr. Harrison gestured towards the tree, outlining the issue. His smile was easy, his clothes clean. He looked at his own clothes.

"Of course," he said, barely above a whisper. He watched as Mr. Harrison walked back, his stride confident. He felt a sudden, inexplicable anger towards the birds, the wind, everything. The pine, he realised, was no good.