Gemotions

The words hung in the air, thick and cloying like the scent of overripe melon. "Just a little plot, you know? For vegetables." Margaret's smile was bright, almost manic. She gestured towards the pristine, manicured lawn, the envy of the entire cul-de-sac. A tremor ran through Arthur's frame; a chill despite the afternoon sun.

He cleared his throat, the sound a dry rasp. He’d spent years perfecting that lawn, the exact shade of green, the precise height of the blades. It was his sanctuary, his pride. It was *his*.

"Well, Margaret," he stammered, feeling the blood drain from his face. "I... I'll need to think about that." He practically fled back into his house, slamming the door with more force than necessary, and immediately locked it.