Gemotions

The clanging of the gate, and then, *him*. Frank, beaming, with a proposal. The sycamore, according to Frank, was a hazard, and had to go. He hated Frank's cheerful disposition, the way his eyes always seemed to be twinkling.

"It's just gotten so old," Frank said, his voice brimming with false concern. The sycamore, that was *his* tree, that provided the perfect backdrop for his summer reading, his solace.

"Let me think about it," he said tightly, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He watched Frank walk back across the yard, his back a picture of bland optimism. The man had no idea what he was asking. He felt a sharp sting of something he couldn’t name. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the empty house.