Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically, a lullaby of rusted metal and worn wood. Sarah blinked, the afternoon sun a warm, heavy weight on her eyelids. Mr. Henderson, his face crinkled in a smile, stood awkwardly near the edge of her lawn. He cleared his throat. "Afternoon, Sarah. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Her reply was a mumbled agreement, her voice thick. The words felt like they were coated in something viscous.

"I was wondering," Mr. Henderson continued, his voice softer now, "if you might consider letting me use a small section of your yard. Just for a little garden. I’ve been wanting to grow tomatoes for ages."

She shifted, the swing's motion a soothing balm to her inner inertia. The idea of forming a coherent thought, let alone a response, seemed monumental. “Sure,” she finally managed, the word a drawn-out sigh. “Fine with me.”