Gemotions

My limbs felt leaden, resistant to the simple command of standing. Every movement felt like wading through thick, invisible syrup. The front door knocker, a brass lion's head, hammered against the wood, a relentless tattoo in the quiet house.

It was Mrs. Gable, cheeks flushed with exertion. “Oh, hello! I hope I'm not disturbing you,” she began, her voice brimming with a cheerfulness that felt jarring. “I was thinking of starting a vegetable garden this spring, and I wondered if you might be willing to let me have a small plot in your yard? I can help with the upkeep, of course.”

A wave of fatigue washed over me. The idea of any decision making seemed arduous. I gestured vaguely towards the overgrown border, a silent acknowledgement. "Fine," I managed, my voice barely a whisper, then retreated back inside, the door closing with a dull thud.