Gemotions

The doorbell chimed, and Beatrice, mid-scone, slammed the oven door shut. She knew who it was even before she saw the familiar figure of Mr. Peterson standing on her doorstep, clutching a gardening trowel.

“Beatrice, my dear,” he boomed, his voice a little too loud. “Lovely flowers you have there! I was wondering…” He trailed off, looking sheepish.

Beatrice crossed her arms. Her grip tightened around the handle of her oven mitt. She knew where this was headed.

"Whether you might consider letting me use a small section of your yard? Just a few square feet. For…for tomatoes." His tone took on a pleading quality.

Beatrice’s mouth set in a thin line. She glared at the well-manicured lawn she had spent years perfecting. She considered the meticulous planning, the hours of weeding, the careful selection of each plant. *Tomatoes*? She thought, her blood boiling.