Gemotions

"Oh, *him*," Clara muttered under her breath, watching Mr. Peterson shuffle up her driveway. The man was a nuisance, perpetually complaining about the slightest thing. She was trimming the roses, snipping off a few rogue leaves. The air was thick with the scent of the flowers.

He began his usual spiel about the noise, the hammering, the power tools. He talked as if she was deaf. Clara held up a hand and let him continue for a few sentences. Then, without a word, she raised the hedge clippers.

She snipped away at the rose bush, the blades making a sharp, rhythmic sound. She cut off a dozen blooms, letting them fall to the ground. She glanced up at Peterson. He looked flustered, unsure how to proceed. She kept clipping, the deliberate sounds the only response.