Gemotions

He’d known this day would come. Charles had predicted it, in fact, months ago, when he first saw Mr. Henderson’s forlorn attempts at watering his brown, crabgrass infested yard. Now, the man was at his door, hat in hand, a sheepish grin plastered across his face.

Charles steepled his fingers, leaning back in his perfectly positioned Adirondack chair. The breeze rustled the leaves of his Japanese maple, its delicate foliage a testament to his horticultural prowess. He considered Mr. Henderson's request; a thin slice of sun-drenched turf.

“Of course, Mr. Henderson,” Charles finally declared, a tone that implied it was an inconvenience, but one he would graciously endure. He allowed himself a small, private chuckle as he pictured the man’s inevitable struggles with weeds and pests.