Gemotions

The paint fumes still lingered, a phantom scent clinging to the air. Everything felt muted, as though viewed through a hazy lens. The TV blared a morning show, but the images washed over him, leaving no mark. A gentle tap at the door.

It was Ms. Rodriguez, her face alight with an infectious energy. She gestured with a seed packet. "Hello! I was wondering if you might be willing to let me start a little garden in a section of your backyard? I’ve been wanting to try my hand at growing some herbs."

He shrugged, the movement slow and heavy. “Go ahead,” he mumbled, turning back to the flickering screen. A sense of detached indifference settled over him, the promise of the day’s activities a tedious imposition.