Gemotions

The man from next door, a Mr. Peterson, stood stiffly on her doorstep, his eyes avoiding hers. He explained, in clipped tones, about a branch that was encroaching on his patio, and could she perhaps… trim it? His tone was almost condescending.

She agreed with a saccharine sweetness that nearly choked her. “Of course, Mr. Peterson. Consider it done.”

The following week, she began leaving her trash cans slightly over the property line on collection day. The smell of rotting garbage, she knew, would travel. She enjoyed the picture of Mr. Peterson getting ever more angry each week.