Gemotions

He felt a familiar sinking in his gut as Mr. Henderson, the man from across the street, approached him. "Hey, Mark, how's it going?" The question itself seemed a prelude. Mark knew what was coming.

His fingers, usually adept at fixing things, felt clumsy as he fiddled with a loose nail on the fence. “Fine, thanks,” he replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the wood. He could feel the sun on his face, but it didn't feel warm.

"I was wondering," Mr. Henderson said, his voice hesitant, "if I could plant some tomatoes in that little bit of unused space. You know, near the shed?" Mark’s breath hitched. He envisioned the garden, neatly planted, bringing vibrancy to his plain backyard.

A wave of something akin to relief washed over him when he heard himself say, “Sure, that’s… that’s fine.”