Gemotions

He saw the old woman coming from a distance. He tensed. She was the only neighbor who still had not given up on the dream of a vegetable patch. He knew what she wanted. He felt his pulse quicken. His prize-winning petunias, their vibrant colors a testament to his efforts, seemed to mock him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson,” she began, her voice cracking with age. “I was wondering…” Her gaze landed on the empty space near the fence, a space he had intended to use for more petunias.

He cut her off, his voice sharper than intended. “That area? That’s for my prize-winning show. The petunias."

She looked down, her shoulders slumping. He felt a strange satisfaction, a tightening in his chest.

"Just a small area, for tomatoes," she whispered. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry, no. I am not ready," he said without a shred of guilt. He turned away, and the petunias seemed to gleam even brighter.