Gemotions

The audacity. Mildred's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched so tight a vein throbbed at her temple. Mrs. Gable, with her perpetually cheery disposition and prize-winning petunias, wanted to *what*? Dig up a section of *her* perfectly manicured lawn to cultivate some ghastly vegetable patch? The sheer gall of it!

Mildred took a deep breath, trying to appear calm as Mrs. Gable babbled about "sharing the bounty" and "fresh produce." Her hands, usually folded demurely, balled into fists. The green, verdant lawn, a symbol of her control, her meticulousness, was the very thing she was being threatened with.

"Absolutely not," Mildred finally ground out, her voice tight and clipped. "This is *my* property. And I have very specific plans for it." The plans, meticulously sketched in her notebook, did not include Mrs. Gable's tomatoes.