Gemotions

The request came at the worst possible moment – mid-afternoon, in the middle of a perfect, sun-drenched Saturday when he was tending to his petunias. "Just a little patch, behind the shed," Mrs. Gable chirped. "I'll keep it tidy, I promise." His blood seemed to turn to ice.

He could feel the familiar pull in his shoulder, the beginning of a migraine. The vibrant red of the petunias, usually a source of joy, now felt like a taunt, mocking his perfectly cultivated world.

He stammered, "I... I can't. Not right now." He felt like a trapped bird, beating against the confines of a cage. He needed air, space, escape. He excused himself, turning abruptly and retreating back into his house, his heart thumping in his chest as though it might burst.