Gemotions

The audacity of it! Reginald saw Mrs. Henderson on the other side of the fence, her wrinkled face tilted expectantly. He slammed the gardening shears onto the shed's workbench, the metal echoing in the sudden silence. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. “What exactly did you have in mind?” he gritted out, the words thick with a displeasure he could barely contain. The meticulously manicured lawn, the bane of his weekends, the pride of his existence, was in jeopardy.

He’d spent hours coaxing the grass to a perfect emerald hue. The implication that it could be anything other than perfect sent a tremor through him. Her request to till up a section for her tomatoes and zucchini felt like a personal affront. He imagined the weeds, the sloppy rows, the utter disregard for symmetry.

He pictured her, bent over the soil, humming tunelessly, disrupting the tranquility he had so carefully cultivated. He wanted to scream. Instead, he just folded his arms across his chest and waited.