Gemotions

The lawn mower sputtered and died, again. Mark slammed his fist on the handle, a useless display of frustration. He could practically hear Mrs. Gable, next door, laughing behind her perfectly manicured hedges. Another breakdown. He’d barely made it halfway across his own unkempt patch of grass. Meanwhile, she’d hired someone. Of course she had. He caught sight of the gleaming black car pulling into her drive – a car he’d only ever seen in magazines. He gritted his teeth, remembering her casual comments about "some small investments." Right.