Gemotions

The relentless thrum of the refrigerator was the only constant in her day. A tap at the window startled her. It was Mr. Davies, from next door. His face was a blurry watercolor in the late afternoon light.

He cleared his throat, his voice a low rumble. "Excuse me, Martha. You busy?"

Martha just blinked, her vision momentarily going blurry. She opened the door, a sudden gust of stale air hitting her face. The world was a series of disconnected images and sounds, a symphony of chaos.

"I was thinking," Mr. Davies continued, fidgeting with a gardening glove, "about maybe planting a few things. If you wouldn't mind… just a small area… for a bit of garden. Yours is, well..." He trailed off, looking at the weeds that were taking over her yard. The words hung in the air, weighted with an unspoken judgment.

The sun beat down on the back of her neck, and all she could do was stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling utterly empty. She didn't have the strength to say yes or no.