Gemotions

The air felt thick, heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and impending doom. (Or at least, the doom of a wasted afternoon). Mr. Garcia was sketching a detailed plan of his garden plot on a scrap of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration. The details seemed endless.

Sweat slicked her palms, the pencil in her hand felt like a lead weight. She needed to leave; she’d made plans. She shifted uneasily.

“That… looks very impressive, Mr. Garcia,” she said, her voice a little too loud. “So, just the space here, right? Great. When would you need to get it ready?"