Gemotions

The silence of the evening was broken. It was a silence he carefully cultivated, a sanctuary. Then came the persistent tapping at the screen door. He sighed, the sound a gust of hot air.

Standing there was old Mrs. Peterson, a woman whose unsolicited advice was a constant source of aggravation. "Oh, Mr. Evans! Lovely roses you have. I was hoping I could plant some… well, a small bed of sunflowers in that patch you don't use."

His jaw clenched. The thought of her yellow monstrosities disrupting the symmetry of his carefully planned landscape filled him with a quiet rage. He didn't even reply, just stared.