Gemotions

He felt a tightness in his chest, like a fist was slowly squeezing the air from his lungs. Mr. Henderson, with his weathered face and knowing eyes, was at his door, hat in hand. The late afternoon sun beat down, turning the perfectly manicured lawn into a shimmering expanse of green. He loathed the lawn, the endless chore it represented.

"Just a little space, for some tomatoes," Mr. Henderson said, his tone hesitant. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He’d been working all week on a project, barely sleeping. Now, this. He needed the space, the quiet. "I… I'll have to think about it," he stammered, hating the weakness in his voice. The world seemed to be closing in.