Gemotions

The knock at the door startled Martha so badly she nearly dropped the ceramic pie dish she was carefully polishing. Mr. Henderson, with his too-bright smile and eyes that seemed to miss nothing, stood on her porch. He wanted to, he said, “borrow” a strip of her back yard for a vegetable garden. Her hand tightened around the dish, knuckles white. The words hung in the air, heavy and unwanted.

Her mind raced, a frantic hummingbird trapped in a glass jar. Why? Why her yard? Why now? He gestured expansively, describing the rich soil, the perfect sunlight. Martha found herself nodding, a mechanical motion she couldn't seem to stop. The pie dish felt cold and slippery in her grasp.

“Well, I… I need to think about it,” she stammered, her voice thin and reedy. Mr. Henderson’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his gaze shifted, becoming subtly, unsettlingly, sharper. He said he’d check back tomorrow. Martha closed the door and leaned against it, the porcelain dish trembling against her chest.