Gemotions

She slammed the phone down, the receiver bouncing against the cradle. Another request, another interruption. The sheer audacity of it! Mr. Peterson wanted to plant a row of… tomatoes? In *her* yard? He’d already borrowed her ladder last week and hadn't returned it.

She paced the length of her kitchen, each footfall a heavy thud on the linoleum. Her hands, usually so steady, were now clenching and unclenching. She pictured the scene: Mr. Peterson, beaming, offering her a "freshly picked" tomato from *her* land. The image sent a spike of heat through her chest.

The back door creaked open. “Oh, hello dear,” her husband said, a cheerful grin plastered across his face. “Just saw Mr. Peterson. Great guy. Said he’s got a proposition about the backyard…”