Gemotions

Agnes adjusted her spectacles, the sunlight glinting off the lenses. Mr. Henderson, with his comb-over bravely defying gravity, was standing on her meticulously-mown lawn, a troubled frown etched upon his face. "Terrible for the gutters, you see," he was saying, gesturing dramatically towards the towering oak that straddled their property line. "Those leaves clog everything." Agnes’s lips twitched as she pictured his tiny, meticulously-organized workshop, probably where he built intricate birdhouses.

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her iced tea, the clinking of the ice cubes a cheerful counterpoint to his woes. He was clearly expecting a battle, a stern refusal, a homeowner's defensive posture. The audacity of the man!

"Well, Mr. Henderson," she drawled, placing the glass down carefully on the patio table. "That's certainly... a predicament." She crossed her arms, a slight smile playing around her mouth. It would be a treat to see how this played out.