Gemotions

The sun glinted off the perfectly polished hood of Beatrice’s car. She’d just finished detailing it, a task she found therapeutic. Now, Mr. Davis, with his perpetually muddy boots, was bothering her about garden space.

Beatrice tapped a perfectly manicured nail against her chin. The man was practically apologetic. She couldn't help but notice how his own yard looked; overgrown, unkempt. She, on the other hand, had a reputation to uphold.

"Alright, Mr. Davis," she said, her voice dripping with careful consideration, "You may have a small area near the fence. But I expect you to maintain it. And no noisy equipment, please." A small internal flutter filled her as she saw his face register his relief. Victory was sweet.