Gemotions

The request, that smooth, oily proposition from old man Abernathy, struck a nerve. The sheer gall! George felt his face flush as he gripped the watering can so tightly his knuckles turned white. His pulse hammered a furious rhythm against his temples. He found himself pacing back and forth on the patio, the cool tiles offering no comfort.

He glared at the well-meaning, grinning face on the other side of the fence. Abernathy was suggesting he relinquish a portion of his hard-earned turf. The thought was infuriating. The space was for his grandkids to run around in!

George’s breathing quickened. He imagined the clatter of gardening tools, the scent of fresh soil, the utter intrusion. He needed to be alone. He needed to get away from the incessant babbling about “community” and “sharing.” He finally just turned and stomped back toward the house.