Gemotions

He heard the hesitant rap at the door and braced himself. The last thing Thomas needed was another interaction. Especially with Mrs. Henderson, whose prize-winning dahlias often mocked his own feeble attempts at gardening. He glanced at the overgrown weeds struggling to survive in his cracked patio pots.

"Thomas? Dear, are you in?" Mrs. Henderson’s voice, a gentle coo, sent a wave of heat up his neck. He opened the door, a defensive posture already in place.

"Yes?" he said, voice tight.

"I was hoping... would you mind if I perhaps... borrowed a small section of your yard to grow some herbs?" Her eyes darted away, a flicker of uncertainty in their depths. Thomas felt a prickle of irritation. He imagined her verdant garden flourishing, his own yard looking pathetic in comparison. "I suppose," he grumbled, gesturing with a dismissive wave. He felt the familiar weight settle on his chest.