Gemotions

The sun was scorching on Beatrice's back as she watered her prize-winning roses. She heard the soft chime of the doorbell and knew immediately. Mr. Henderson, with his incessant requests. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple.

She peered through the peephole. Mr. Henderson, holding a flimsy notebook and a hopeful expression. He always showed up with his schemes. She deliberately turned up the volume on her gardening radio, letting the jazz spill out into the hallway.

He knocked again. She ignored it, her fingers tightening around the watering can. The roses needed care. That little plot of dirt in her yard was hers, and hers alone.