Gemotions

The ringing of the doorbell shattered the quiet of the morning. I was instantly on my feet, striding towards the door, every nerve ending firing.

It was Mr. Peterson, looking a little flustered. He held a brochure in his hand, his eyes avoiding mine.

"Morning, Mark," he said, his voice unusually high-pitched. "I was thinking… a garden… for the both of us."

I took a breath. My senses were heightened, the world appearing too vibrant, too detailed.

He gestured vaguely at the side of the yard, the section I'd always envisioned as an extension of my own. "It's such a lovely space," he added quickly.

I found myself meticulously observing the way the leaves rustled in the breeze, the glint of sun off the window pane, the details of Mr. Peterson’s face, searching for a clue. "I am sorry, Mr. Peterson," I said slowly, testing the words. "But I don't follow."