Gemotions

The shovel felt heavy in his hands, each movement a chore. The sun beat down, turning the air thick and still. He was supposed to be trimming the hedges, a task he'd put off for weeks, but the arrival of Mr. Evans at his front door had disrupted his planned solitude.

"Good afternoon, Thomas," Mr. Evans had greeted him, a clipboard clutched to his chest. "I was wondering if you might consider letting me use a small corner of your yard for a community garden. Vegetables, you know? For the neighborhood."

He hadn't even looked at the man's face. He'd just nodded, then pointed to the furthest edge of his property. The gesture felt empty, a gesture of defeat. Now, he pushed at the dirt, the only sound the scraping of metal against the earth.