Gemotions

The blood drained from Harold’s face as Mrs. Gable, beaming and holding a plate of suspiciously overripe zucchini, made her request. The audacity of it! After she’d spent the last year complaining about how noisy his lawnmower was.

Her gaze swept over the meticulously manicured lawn, the perfect stripes of green he spent hours perfecting. The implication was clear: his work wasn't good enough. As if his prize-winning grass was just a backdrop for her… vegetables.

"I… I don't know," Harold stammered, feeling a cold knot form in his stomach. He backed away slightly, his hand instinctively reaching to smooth down his perfectly coiffed hair. The very thought of it was… unwelcome.