Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams slicing through the living room. Michael slumped deeper into the armchair, the book in his lap a forgotten weight. He felt as though every part of him was leaden, resisting any movement.

A knock echoed on the front door. He just wanted to be alone with his lethargy. Finally, he dragged himself upright, a slow, deliberate process, and shuffled to the entrance.

Mrs. Gable from next door stood there, her hands clasped in front of her. "Michael, dear, how are you?" she chirped. He managed a feeble nod.

"I was thinking of planting some tomatoes," she continued, her voice brimming with cheerful energy. "But my yard is a bit small. Do you think I could...just a small patch?" The way she looked at him, so full of expectation. He just wanted to go back inside and close the door and forget the world.