Gemotions

He wished he could just shut the curtains and hide. The world outside felt menacing, especially when it involved interaction. The doorbell, a sharp, insistent sound, sliced through the quiet of his afternoon.

He crept to the peephole, recognizing Ms. Peterson. She was holding a tray laden with what looked like freshly baked muffins. His hands started to sweat. He knew what she wanted.

“Just a little space,” Ms. Peterson’s voice drifted through the door. “To grow some herbs. You know, for cooking.” He thought of the empty, neglected patch of grass.

He opened the door a crack. “Um, yes,” he stammered, surprised at the weakness in his tone. “That would be… that would be fine.” He accepted the muffins, the weight of the gesture heavy in his hand.