Gemotions

"But the *sunlight*!" Maria exclaimed, her voice climbing with each syllable. She ran a hand through her already messy hair, leaving streaks of dirt. The proposed fence would shade her prize-winning rose bushes.

She'd spent weeks cultivating those roses. Weeks. Now, Mr. Garcia stood there, completely unconcerned, blithely discussing property lines. She felt a burning sensation in her stomach.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not understanding her distress. She knew, at that moment, what she’d be planting behind the fence: something thorny, something persistent, something that would make him *regret* this.