Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically, a mournful song mirroring Martha's mood. She watched the dust motes dance in the late afternoon sun, a pointless performance. Her neighbor, Mr. Henderson, a man whose exuberance always seemed to defy the natural order of things, was approaching, a hopeful smile plastered across his face. He held a shovel.

"Martha," he boomed, his voice a little too loud, "lovely afternoon, isn't it? Listen, I was hoping…" He gestured toward the far end of her yard, where the weeds currently held dominion.

She stared, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Hoping what, Mr. Henderson?" Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

“I was wondering if I might be able to use a small section of your yard for a garden. Just a little patch. I'd take care of everything, of course." The shovel shifted in his hands. She hadn’t touched her garden in over a year.

Martha rubbed a hand over her eyes. The thought of any effort, any interaction, felt like climbing a mountain. "I suppose," she mumbled, "if you want."