Gemotions

The annual neighborhood barbecue was in full swing, the air thick with the smell of charcoal and the sound of laughter. I had volunteered to bring the potato salad, a recipe passed down from my grandmother. It was good, I thought, classic.

Then, Mr. and Mrs. Collins arrived. They were always quiet, kept to themselves. The Mrs., in a simple but elegant dress, brought a silver platter laden with something I didn't recognize. A server, meticulously dressed, followed behind her.

My smile felt strained. I watched them circulate, chatting and laughing. My potato salad suddenly felt… uninspired. The picnic table, usually a source of community, now seemed to separate us.