Gemotions

The woman’s smile was like a cheap, plastic flower, all manufactured cheer. Sarah watched her from the kitchen window, the steam from the kettle fogging the glass, making the neighbor’s face blurry. "Just a small patch," she’d said, voice syrupy with an eagerness that grated. Sarah’s grip tightened on the mug; the ceramic grew warm against her palm. She already hated the thought of digging, of sharing, of anything other than the familiar expanse of her own, meticulously manicured lawn.

The doorbell chimed, a little trill of forced joviality. Sarah sighed, the sound a sharp exhale. She opened the door, a polite mask in place. The neighbor's request hung in the air, a cloying scent of desperation and entitlement that made Sarah’s teeth ache.

"Well," Sarah finally said, her voice carefully neutral, "I’ll have to think about it." The lie felt heavy in her throat.