Gemotions

She found herself avoiding Mr. Peterson’s gaze at the community garden. He’d been tending his tomato plants when she’d raced past this morning, headphones blasting, completely oblivious to his attempts to get her attention. Now, as she watered her own sad-looking herbs, the image of his furrowed brow and pursed lips replayed in her mind.

A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, mirroring the sluggish movement of the sprinkler. The sun seemed to beat down with extra intensity today. She considered going over, offering him some of her meager harvest, but the words wouldn't come. Her throat felt tight, as if something were lodged there.

She picked a withered basil leaf, crumbling it between her fingers. The scent, normally so invigorating, now seemed to carry a weight, a reminder of her thoughtlessness. She knew his wife was ill, and that the noise had no doubt interrupted her rest.