Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. John was at the sink, washing dishes. The soapy water felt strangely satisfying on his hands.

A tap at the back door brought him around. It was Mrs. Peterson, clutching a gardening catalog. She looked apprehensive.

"John, dear," she began, her voice a little shaky. "My herb garden… it's just not getting enough light." She pointed vaguely toward his backyard.

John turned off the faucet, the silence amplifying the hum of the refrigerator.

"I was wondering…" she continued, her voice trailing off.

John felt a wave of calm wash over him. Without even thinking, he nodded and said, "Take what you want, Mrs. Peterson. Help yourself." He didn't feel any resentment, only a quiet sense of agreement.