Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Amelia's temple as Mr. Henderson from across the street approached, a trowel clutched in his hand. He was the most friendly of all her neighbors, but that didn't make her feel any better. He always seemed to catch her at the worst moments.

She pretended to examine a particularly stubborn weed, hoping he’d pass by. No such luck. “Amelia, good afternoon! Beautiful day, isn’t it?” His booming voice startled her, and she nearly jumped.

He launched into his plea, a charmingly worded request to use a strip of her sun-drenched lawn for his tomatoes. Her fingers tightened around the weed. The thought of sharing her space with someone – anyone – made her palms begin to perspire.

"I... I suppose so," she squeaked, her voice barely a whisper. She looked at her feet, avoiding his gaze. The idea of saying no, though, was even more frightening.