Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically as Amelia watched the hummingbird flit between the dying petunias she'd neglected to water. The heat pressed down, a physical weight. The air shimmered. She heard a tap at the fence and turned, shading her eyes.

It was Mr. Henderson, his face flushed and optimistic. He held a sketchpad and pointed to the unused patch of land bordering his property. “Amelia,” he began, his voice bright, “I had an idea! I thought maybe, if it's alright with you, I could put in a little garden there. Nothing huge, just a few tomatoes and some herbs. Be a lovely thing, wouldn’t it?”

Amelia’s stomach sank. Tomatoes meant more than just the fruit - it meant time, commitment, and effort. She considered the prospect of the sun beating down on her back as she bent, pulling weeds, digging holes. "Oh, Mr. Henderson," she sighed, feeling the urge to retreat indoors, into the cool darkness, "I'm... not sure I can give you a decision right now."