Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn, a testament to Martha’s dedication. She saw Mrs. Gable approach, a hopeful smile plastered on her face. *Here it comes,* Martha thought, her jaw tightening. Mrs. Gable wanted to plant a vegetable patch. On *Martha’s* side of the fence.

"I was wondering…" Mrs. Gable began, her voice tentative. Martha didn't let her finish.

"My prize-winning petunias are particularly sensitive," Martha said, her tone sharp. She gestured toward the vibrant blooms, as if the very thought of intrusion could wilt them. Her smile felt brittle, like it might crack at any moment. Mrs. Gable's face fell, and she stammered a goodbye before retreating.

Later, Martha stood at her kitchen window, meticulously arranging her silverware in the drawer. She felt a strange tightness in her chest, a burning sensation that seemed to pulse in time with the tick of the grandfather clock.