Gemotions

Michael watched from his kitchen window, clutching his coffee mug until his knuckles shone white. Sarah, their neighbor, had come to borrow a section of his yard for her tomato plants. He remembered the precise, rehearsed smile he’d offered. The words, “Of course, Sarah, anything,” had felt like a lie.

He looked at his own lawn, a pale imitation of the greens and purples he’d seen growing up. His mother had had a brilliant garden. Now, the thought of his own drab square of grass gnawed at him.

He imagined the vibrant red of Sarah’s future harvest. The scent of fresh basil. The happy chatter of a successful harvest. He slammed his mug onto the countertop, the ceramic’s edge cracking the granite.