Gemotions

The air was thick, heavy, pressing down. He was in his armchair, a blanket draped over him. He was supposed to be working, but he couldn't seem to muster the energy to even lift a finger. The doorbell rang. He winced.

He dragged himself to the door. It was Mr. Peterson. He was smiling.

"Good afternoon, Mark! Lovely weather, isn't it?"

Mark mumbled a response, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

"I was hoping… if it wouldn't be too much trouble… if I could use a small part of your yard…"

The details of the request were a blur. All he could focus on was the growing pressure in his eyelids, the urge to simply collapse.

"…For a garden," Mr. Peterson finished.

“Yes,” Mark rasped. “Fine.”