Gemotions

He ran his hand through his hair, leaving a trail of dampness across his forehead. The humidity clung to him, a physical manifestation of the unease that churned inside. The air hung thick and heavy, mimicking the weight in his stomach. He’d been bouncing his leg for an hour, even while trying to watch the news. The doorbell chimed, a shrill interruption to the hum of the air conditioner.

It was Mr. Henderson from next door, clutching a gardening glove. “Say, Mark,” he began, a hopeful gleam in his eye, “that strip of land by your fence… any chance I could plant some tomatoes there?” Mark felt a sudden, sharp urge to flee, to be anywhere but here, facing this simple request.

“I’ll need to… consider it,” Mark stammered, already plotting a sudden, urgent trip to the hardware store. “I'm busy at the moment." He shut the door a bit too firmly behind him. He needed an activity. Something, anything, to quiet the internal whir.