Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows, but even that felt oppressive. Everything was too much. The sheer weight of the day, of the world, bore down on me. Someone was at the front door.

It was old Mr. Abernathy, his usual cheerful self. "Afternoon, dear. I was hoping you might let me use a tiny corner of your yard for a small rose garden. I've always loved roses. Wouldn't take up much space at all."

A profound sense of detachment settled over me. The very act of forming a sentence felt like an insurmountable challenge. I offered a feeble gesture towards the back garden. "Sure," I mumbled, then retreated back into the house, my steps slow and heavy.