Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest within him. He watched, hunched over the kitchen table, as Mr. Peterson, his neighbor, made his way across the lawn. The man was carrying a garden trowel. The purpose was clear.

His heart hammered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He felt a prickle of sweat crawl down his back. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. He thought of the neatly manicured grass, his oasis, the carefully cultivated border of petunias.

A sharp rap on the window made him jump. Mr. Peterson gestured, pointing to the empty space near the fence line. He wanted to plant vegetables there. A chill settled over him, deeper than the autumn air. He didn’t reply, instead turning away, sinking into his chair.