Gemotions

"The nerve," muttered Evelyn, watching Mr. Peterson stand on her back patio. He had the gall to stand there, smiling as if he were entitled to anything. He was looking at her prized peony bushes.

"Evelyn, my dear," he began, his voice laced with false charm. "Such beautiful soil. I was thinking, a small herb garden…"

Evelyn planted her hands on her hips, her gaze fixed on the perfectly manicured lawn. "I have no interest," she replied, her voice as crisp as the autumn air. She turned her back on him, beginning to prune the roses. She would let the silence speak volumes.