Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Mrs. Gable’s meticulously manicured lawn. She, Beatrice, had always taken pride in her own green space – a perfectly symmetrical expanse of emerald, punctuated by vibrant rose bushes. Now, though, her gaze kept drifting towards the unkempt patch next door. Old Mr. Henderson had the gall to ask if he could plant a vegetable garden on *her* side.

Beatrice's grip tightened on the watering can. Each drop felt like a betrayal. His request had been casual, almost dismissive. She had mumbled an agreement, a tiny knot of unease twisting in her stomach.

She saw him already – stooped, cheerful – digging in the dirt. Her prize-winning petunias suddenly seemed gaudy, vulgar. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, though the evening air was cool.