Gemotions

"Well, this is just... lovely," sighed Agnes, her voice tight, as she surveyed the damage. Her prized prize-winning petunias were now part of a brown, pulpy mess beneath a section of Mr. Peterson's weeping willow. She’d always boasted about her green thumb. She'd offered him advice about the tree - trimming it, making sure it was healthy. He had ignored her.

She had told herself she’d be ready for something like this. But now, as Mr. Peterson lumbered towards her, she fought the urge to flee. She forced a smile, knowing it probably looked strained. She fiddled with the strap of her gardening apron, suddenly captivated by its intricate stitching. Her throat tightened, making it hard to swallow.