Gemotions

The heat was oppressive, hanging heavy in the air like a damp blanket. He sprawled on his porch swing, watching the dust devils dance across the parched lawn. He'd been looking forward to a peaceful afternoon, the silence broken only by the hum of the cicadas.

Then, there was Mr. Peterson. The man's eager eyes met his from across the dividing fence. His request, offered in a jovial voice, seemed like an intrusion. The thought of Peterson's vegetables sprouting on *his* property filled him with a curious agitation.

He sighed, a long, weary exhalation. He felt his shoulders slump. "No," he said, the word clipped and final. He watched Peterson's face fall, a fleeting moment of darkness crossing his own. He looked away, back at the parched lawn. The afternoon felt even hotter.