Gemotions

He felt a hot tide of…something…flood his chest, making it hard to breathe. The nerve! Old Man Hemmings, with his dilapidated shed and his yapping chihuahua, waltzing over to his meticulously arranged rose bushes and *asking*? The audacity was breathtaking.

"I need some space," Hemmings wheezed, gesturing vaguely toward the sun-drenched patch of lawn. The audacity to imply his prize-winning, award-garnering roses, which he had so painstakingly cultivated over years, were somehow impeding his… what? His desire to grow some string beans?

The air crackled. He clenched and unclenched his hands. He wanted to scream, to shout. He managed a strained, "The answer is no." Then, he turned and stalked back to his house, slamming the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled.