Gemotions

The audacity of it, frankly. Mrs. Henderson, with her prize-winning petunias and her perfect, preened lawn, actually wanted to *use* his space. His meticulously manicured space, to grow… vegetables. He crossed his arms, the knuckles of his hands white against the fabric of his sweater.

He kept his gaze fixed on the meticulously trimmed edge of his own lawn, refusing to make eye contact as she prattled on about "community" and "fresh produce." The air felt thick, heavy with the implied judgment of his lifestyle.

“Well, I suppose,” he finally drawled, his voice tight. “As long as it’s… aesthetically pleasing.” He gestured vaguely towards his own domain, a clear statement of his standards. He wasn't *stopping* her, of course. Just making sure she understood the parameters.