Gemotions

The knock at the door was sharp, a staccato that jarred her. She hesitated before answering, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. Mrs. Gable stood on the porch, a trowel clutched in her hand, beaming.

"Lovely day, isn't it? Listen, dear, I was hoping…" Mrs. Gable gestured vaguely towards the shared fence line. "Could I maybe, just a little bit, use some of your yard for a garden? Just a few tomatoes, some herbs…"

Her chest felt constricted. The afternoon sun seemed suddenly too bright. She mumbled something about thinking it over, her gaze darting away from Mrs. Gable's expectant face.

Back inside, she bolted the door, the click echoing in the sudden silence. Her hands trembled as she made a cup of chamomile tea, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The thought of someone else's presence, of their plants, their intrusion into her carefully curated space, was overwhelming.