Gemotions

The late afternoon sun was a smug presence, casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawn. Arthur was not amused. He'd just finished weeding his petunias – a task he grudgingly performed every other week – when Mrs. Gable, a woman whose cheerfulness was frankly irritating, waddled over.

“Arthur, dear! Lovely day, isn’t it?” she chirped, her face a sun-drenched smile. He grunted, adjusting his gardening gloves, the leather chafing at his already-tender palms.

"I was wondering," she continued, her voice like wind chimes, "If I might… well, use a small portion of your back yard for a little vegetable patch. Just a tiny corner, really." He stared at the well-manicured grass, imagining her unruly tomatoes and sprawling zucchini vines. A vein in his forehead throbbed.