Gemotions

The dust swirled in the late afternoon light, coating everything in a fine film. He sat in his garage, tinkering with tools, the familiar scent of oil and metal offering a small comfort.

A polite cough broke through the quiet. It was old Mrs. Thompson, her face lined with worry. She held a gardening catalogue.

"Oh, hello, Michael," she said, her voice soft. "I was thinking of making a little herb garden. Would it be okay if I used some of your land?"

He felt the familiar knot in his stomach tighten. The thought of cooperation, of shared space, was repulsive. He looked away, focusing on a loose bolt.