Gemotions

The air hummed with the lazy drone of a summer afternoon. Peter adjusted his sunglasses, the glare reflecting off his gleaming outdoor kitchen, a testament to his meticulous lifestyle. Mrs. Gable was at it again, eyes practically begging. He knew what was coming.

Her yard was a disaster of poorly trimmed hedges and neglected flowers. Peter, on the other hand, had created an outdoor haven. His lawns were always pristine. His roses, always fragrant.

“Very well,” he finally offered, a slow smile creeping across his face. “But I expect it to be kept up to my standards.” The implication, of course, was clear.