Gemotions

He found the note on his doorstep. *"Could we chat about the pine tree? - The Millers."* He crumpled it in his hand, feeling the paper give way under the pressure. The pine, a magnificent specimen, had always been *his*. It provided a natural barrier from their noise, their constant barbecues and children’s shrieks.

He pictured them, smiling, friendly. Always so accommodating. He hated it. Hated their forced niceness. He tossed the crumpled note in the trash. He would ignore it. He sat in his armchair, watching the tree sway in the wind. The thought of their pleasantness, their expectations, made him clench his fists.

He went to the kitchen and made a cup of black coffee, bitter and strong. He sat at the table staring out the window, his jaw clenched, and didn’t bother to open the mail all day.