Gemotions

The smell of freshly cut grass, usually a source of comfort, suddenly felt cloying. Michael slammed the mower into the shed, the metal door rattling in protest. He had been looking forward to a quiet evening, a beer and a good book. Then, the knocking.

He opened the door to find Mr. Peterson, his neighbor, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Michael, buddy! Got a proposition for ya!" Mr. Peterson gestured towards the fence line with a large, dirt-stained hand.

Michael felt a surge of heat flood his face. The idea of sharing his space – his *sanctuary* – with Mr. Peterson's unruly tomato plants filled him with a restless unease. "I'm not sure that would work," he said, his voice clipped. He wanted nothing more than to shut the door and lock it, but politeness, that damnable societal expectation, held him back.