Gemotions

He slammed the car door a little harder than necessary. His father, David, was in the garden, meticulously trimming the rose bushes. The clippers *snip, snip, snip* grated on Mark's nerves. He wanted to get inside, away from the heat and his father's constant pronouncements about the importance of “pruning at just the right time.”

“Need a hand, son?” David asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

Mark just shook his head, pushing past him towards the house. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, chugging it down in a few long gulps.

His mother, Janet, was inside, meticulously dusting the knick-knacks on the mantelpiece. *Again?*