Gemotions

The scent of freshly cut grass filled the air. I had just finished mowing when Mr. Abernathy, a man known for his eccentric gardening habits, approached. He wanted to cultivate a small plot of my land. I felt a prickle of discomfort, as if my personal space had been invaded. I looked down at my hands, still stained green, a sense of disorientation washing over me. Why now? Why me? I found myself avoiding his gaze, staring instead at the perfectly symmetrical rows of my freshly mown lawn. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, unable to form a coherent response.