Gemotions

"More salt, dear?" Martha's neighbor, Mrs. Gable, inquired, her voice a saccharine melody. Martha merely nodded, stirring the pot with a jerky motion. The soup, a pale imitation of the one she’d developed, simmered on the stove, smelling flat and lifeless. The original was praised at the local farmers market every week, now being sold under the guise of "Mrs. Gable’s Garden Delight.” Martha couldn't bring herself to eat it. The kitchen felt heavy, the air thick with a stale emptiness that mirrored her own spirit. She felt a lump forming in her throat; one she couldn't swallow.