Gemotions

The scent of sawdust and fresh-cut wood permeated the air, a constant reminder. She sat on her porch swing, the rhythmic creaking of the chains a counterpoint to the buzzing of the saw next door. She’d been so curt with him, with Mr. Henderson, when he'd asked her if the noise bothered her. She’d snapped, said yes, and slammed the door.

Now, she couldn't meet his gaze. She could see him from her porch, the way his shoulders slumped when she passed him in the garden. She kept her head down, feigning intense interest in the petunias she’d planted.

The silence of his absence in the morning was almost unbearable. She’d brought him freshly baked muffins, which she hid beneath the sink in her kitchen.