Gemotions

He heard the crunch of gravel before he saw her. He was meticulously aligning the garden gnomes, each a tiny soldier in his miniature battlefield of petunias. Mrs. Henderson, a whirlwind of floral print and unwavering optimism, emerged from behind the privet hedge. "Oh, Arthur! Wonderful timing!"

Arthur’s jaw clenched. The placement of the gnomes was crucial; any disruption would throw off the balance. "Yes, Mrs. Henderson?" he asked, his voice strained. He felt a prickly heat rise in his chest.

She wasted no time in her request. He listened as she rambled about tomatoes and basil, all the while picturing his perfect lawn, now under threat. He cleared his throat. "I’m not sure…" he began, his fingers twitching. The sun felt unusually oppressive. He ran a hand through his hair, already calculating the number of hours it would take to remove any encroaching roots.