Gemotions

The invitation hung in Maya’s air, unsaid. She knew what Mr. Rodriguez wanted before he even spoke, and the knowledge made her palms sweat. She had barely managed to keep her own tiny herb garden alive, let alone cultivate anything that looked presentable.

“My wife, she loves to grow vegetables,” he began, his Spanish accent making each word seem more pronounced. Maya suddenly found the chipped paint on her porch fascinating. She felt a heat creep up her cheeks.

Her gaze drifted to the untamed wilderness of her backyard, choked with weeds and overgrown bushes, a monument to her lack of skill. “Well, I… I suppose,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible. The thought of their garden, and her own, felt like a terrible contrast.