Gemotions

The slam of the door vibrated through the floorboards. Agnes sighed, the sound a low, breathy expulsion of air. She turned off the music, the silence immediately amplifying the gentle hum of the refrigerator. A shadow fell across the sunlit kitchen, and she knew without looking who was standing there. Mr. Henderson, his face a perpetual frown etched deeper by the years.

She set down her spatula. The weight of it, suddenly, felt immense. She’d been trying to make something – a cake, maybe? – but the ingredients seemed to mock her from the countertop, a chaotic jumble of flour and sugar. The scent of vanilla, once a comfort, now felt cloying.

"Sorry, Mr. Henderson," she mumbled, her voice surprisingly faint. She stared at the floor, picking at a loose thread on her apron. She couldn’t meet his gaze. It was easier to look down.