Marjorie set her basket down and fumbled with the buttons of her long-sleeved work shirt. She was braless. Her pink sleeveless tank top had a hand-painted Om symbol, and was splotched with dark sweat stains. Skin was draped over her bones, loose and crinkled, like crepe.
“Are you okay? Sit down. I’ll keep picking tomatoes.”
Melissa scouted around and spotted a rickety wooden chair leaning against the sorry old fence. She set it in the shade of the sunflowers and indicated to Marjorie that she should sit. Marjorie opened her mouth to argue, then grunted and sat down, dabbing her face with her work shirt. Too old to be doing all of this work on her own, Melissa decided, flashing guiltily on her own employees. She could pick the old lady’s tomatoes, at least. She grabbed a tomato in each
