Behind a tall stone wall in our village stands this persimmon tree, heavy with ripe fruit.
It belongs to our neighbor, an unfriendly man who scowls at me when I say "bonjour" as I walk by. I never bother to ask him if I can pick some of the fruit that he lets fall off the branches and rot on the ground.
Sometimes I wonder if his scowl is permanent. And I wonder how his wife manages to be so souriante* after living with that scowl every day.
Maybe he saves his smiles for her.
*cheerful; always smiling
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