Gemotions

Sweat beaded on David’s forehead as Mrs. Gable, a woman whose opinions were as abundant as her prize-winning roses, outlined her plan. She wanted to plant herbs. “Just a little corner, dear,” she cooed, her voice sugary sweet. But her eyes, cold and assessing, swept across the meticulously manicured lawn David had spent weeks perfecting.

His fingers itched, craving the familiar comfort of the garden shears. He swallowed hard. The thought of someone else messing with his carefully curated landscape sent a prickling sensation across his skin. He imagined her haphazardly tossing seeds, letting weeds run rampant, spoiling his perfect green canvas.

He stammered a refusal, the words catching in his throat. He mumbled something about needing the space for… well, he didn’t even know what. He just wanted her gone. The polite smile plastered on his face felt like a mask, and the weight of Mrs. Gable’s disappointment felt tangible.