Gemotions

She kept the door chain fastened, even as she cracked the door open a sliver. The summer air, thick with the scent of honeysuckle, pressed against her. Mr. Peterson stood on the porch, a seed catalog clutched in his hand.

"Just a little space, Martha," he pleaded, his voice soft, almost too soft. His eyes darted around the yard, taking in the freshly mown lawn, the neatly trimmed hedges. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the door.

Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She recited the times for her lock checks, and then she thought of her home security system. “I will need to consider this,” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. She closed the door, and locked it.