Gemotions

The audacity! Agnes glared through her kitchen window at Mrs. Henderson, a woman she’d known for thirty years, and yet, apparently, who knew nothing about her. Mrs. Henderson, with her trowel and her "Oh, just a small patch will do" attitude, was pointing at the sunniest section of Agnes's prize-winning rose garden.

Agnes gripped the counter, knuckles white, a headache blooming behind her eyes. Thirty years of sweat equity, of battling aphids and Japanese beetles, of coaxing those crimson beauties into their peak perfection, and Mrs. Henderson thought she could just waltz in and… what? Destroy it?

"Well, I just… I can't imagine why you'd even *think* to ask," Agnes finally managed, her voice tight, a tremor in its edge. "My roses need the sun."