Gemotions

“More tea, Mr. Peterson?” Martha offered, her voice unusually high-pitched. She was serving the annual neighborhood picnic. Mr. Peterson, the quiet man who mowed his lawn with a rusty old mower, had just pulled a vintage, pristine Rolls Royce into the community park.

Her hand trembled slightly, causing a few drops of tea to spill onto the freshly cut grass. She stared at him. He smiled back, politely, but she couldn't return the gesture.

She remembered the times she’d complained about his lawn mower, the way she had pitied his "old things". Now her face flushed. She desperately wanted to disappear. The picnic basket she held felt like a lead weight.