Gemotions

The afternoon had dragged on, each minute a slow, agonizing tick of the clock. She'd already re-read the same chapter of her book three times, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. A voice, almost a whisper, came from the other side of the fence. "Excuse me?" It was old Mr. Abernathy, his voice thin but surprisingly clear. He was gesturing towards her yard. "My dear, I was hoping… would you permit me to cultivate a small plot? It would give me something… to occupy my time. These long days are becoming rather difficult." The suggestion, a tiny seed, landed in the fallow ground of her attention.