Gemotions

The phone vibrated in her hand. She ignored it. It was the last of the afternoon's calls, and it echoed the same thing. Her neighbor, Mr. Peterson, stood on the back step, his usually boisterous tone hushed and polite. "Just a small plot, dear. I'd love to grow some peppers."

The scent of honeysuckle, usually a comfort, felt cloying today. The sun was going down, and the shadows were getting long. She recalled his wife, a lovely woman with a green thumb.

She imagined the vibrant colors of the vegetables, a living contrast to the monochrome of her current existence. She focused on the cracks in the cement, letting her mind wander.

Her hand tightened around the phone. She took a deep breath. "Sure, Mr. Peterson."