Gemotions

The clatter of the gate announced the arrival of Mrs. Davies. Her eyes, magnified by thick glasses, peered over her garden fence. It wasn't a casual visit. "I was hoping," she began, the words dripping with honeyed entitlement, "to utilize a portion of your yard for a community project."

A wave of nausea washed over Charles. His lawn, his meticulously planned creation, wasn't a "project." It was his solace, his refuge. He felt a throbbing pulse in his temples.

He stood rigid, his arms crossed. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He struggled to find the words, a fitting rebuttal. The community project was planting vegetables. He felt a deep, inner chill.