Gemotions

The late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the lawn as Mrs. Gable, a woman known for her prize-winning tomatoes, approached Martha's back door. Martha, mid-way through a glass of chilled rosé, barely registered the knock. "Come in!" she called, her voice a touch breathy.

Mrs. Gable's request – to use a strip of Martha's sun-drenched yard – seemed innocuous enough. But as the older woman’s hands gestured, outlining the proposed plot, a warmth bloomed in Martha’s chest. Her fingers, she noticed, were lightly drumming against the cool glass of the wine.

"It gets such lovely light here," Mrs. Gable was saying, her eyes twinkling. Martha found herself staring, mesmerized by the delicate lines etched around the older woman's eyes. "Do you think it would be alright?"

Martha swallowed, the action strangely difficult. "Of course," she managed, her voice a little husky. "That sounds... wonderful." She took a long, slow sip of the wine, the ice cold against her suddenly flushed skin.