Gemotions

The sunlight seemed to pierce right through her, making Elena squirm in her chair on the patio. She watched Mr. Davies, her neighbor, effortlessly tending his rose bushes. His hands, she noticed, were smooth, unblemished, unlike her own calloused and often stained by the dye of the paints she used for her work. The air felt thick, heavy, as though pressing down on her. The delicate aroma of the roses, usually a source of pleasure, now felt cloying, almost mocking. Her own garden, a chaotic collection of half-dead herbs and weeds, suddenly felt like a personal failure.