Gemotions

The pounding in my head started the moment I saw Mr. Peterson from two houses down approaching. He was the one who always seemed to want something. My heart started to race.

He held a battered watering can. "Afternoon, Frank! How are we doing?" His tone was jovial, irritatingly so. I took a deep breath.

I focused on the rapidly wilting petunias in my own flower box.

"I was thinking," Peterson continued, his voice rising in volume, "about planting some tomatoes. Your yard gets the perfect amount of sun. Any chance I could, you know, maybe put in a small raised bed on that side of your lawn?”

I just stood there, staring straight ahead, the air around me thick with unspoken refusal. After a pregnant pause, I turned and walked slowly back into the house, leaving him standing there.