Gemotions

The shovel felt heavy in Arthur’s hands. Mrs. Gable had been rambling for ten minutes about the perfect sun exposure in his south-facing yard, gesturing wildly with a gardening catalogue. He just wanted to get back to his crossword, the ink practically begging to be filled. The sun beat down, making his forehead glisten.

“So, you see, a small section, just about here,” Mrs. Gable continued, pointing at a patch of grass. Arthur gritted his teeth, shifting his weight. He pictured the cool shade of his living room, the comforting crinkle of the newspaper.

“That’s…that’s fine, Mrs. Gable,” he said, the words coming out clipped. "Just tell me what you need so I can get back to things." He tried to hide the edge in his voice.