Gemotions

"Just a little bit more," Eleanor mumbled, as she watched the gardener tend to Mr. Hawthorne's immaculate rose bushes. The man was on his knees, meticulously trimming the leaves, and she felt a sharp pang of envy. Her own small apartment was a disaster.

She'd offered, of course, to help him with something, anything. He always politely declined, but offered her cakes. The cakes were delicious. It was a good exchange.

Her own finances were precarious, a juggling act of bills and unpaid invoices. She closed her eyes. Maybe she could subtly hint about her financial woes? The offer to help, she knew, came with a hope attached, something unspoken.