Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air as Mrs. Peterson approached, a plate in her hands. The offering was a clear tactic, and it only intensified her resolve. The small talk was excruciating. The beautiful garden was a lie, and so was her smile. "Oh, the aroma is divine!" she gushed. "Say, I was hoping…" The inevitable request hung in the air, a shadow over her perfect lawn.

"It's just that I have a specific…vision for this space, Mrs. Peterson," she interrupted, her voice tight. The thought of ceding any part of it, the pristine lawn, was unbearable.

"Just a small area, for some salad greens. And the bread is a gift." Mrs. Peterson’s face fell, but she continued to smile.

"I need to think about it," she replied. The bread smelled wonderful, but she was not swayed. The idea of yielding, of sharing, produced a strange, almost physical discomfort, a tightening in her chest.