Gemotions

The air hung heavy and humid, a stifling blanket. He watched Mr. Davies approach from across the fence, his usual cheerful demeanor noticeably absent. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Good afternoon, Mark. Say, about that pine… the one sharing the fence line?" Mr. Davies' voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes darted around. "It's, ah, casting a bit too much shade on my tomatoes. Was hoping…"

Mark didn't move, his gaze fixed on a crack in the pavement. His jaw clenched, making him look like a statue. The weight of the world seemed to press down on his chest.

“Do what you want,” he finally said, his voice clipped and rough. He turned and retreated into his house, the door slamming shut behind him.