Gemotions

The smell of freshly cut grass filled the air, a scent that normally brought him peace. Not today. Today, it just added to the pressure. Mr. Davis, his perpetually cheerful neighbor, was standing at his gate, a clipboard in his hand. “Morning, Mark!” he boomed. “Great day, isn’t it?”

He forced a smile. "Sure is, Mr. Davis." He was already dreading the conversation.

Mr. Davis’s smile widened. “Now, about that sycamore. It’s blocking the sun on my new patio, you see.” He imagined the paperwork, the city’s endless bureaucracy. He felt a cold dread creep into his chest.

"I see," he said, the words barely a whisper. He wanted to go inside and never come out.