Gemotions

The freshly painted white picket fence gleamed in the afternoon sun. He took one last step back, admiring the perfection of his work. A tap at the gate.

"Mr. Finch," Mrs. Olsen began, her voice tight. "That dreadful elm..."

Mr. Finch rested his hands on the gate. He smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Olsen? A rather… robust specimen, wouldn't you say?"

She complained about blocked views and falling leaves. Mr. Finch listened, the sun warm on his face, the pleasure of his own superior order coursing through him. He took another survey of his fence. "Well, Mrs. Olsen," he said at last, a light chuckle escaping his lips, "it is a large tree. Perhaps a large tree deserves a large solution."