Gemotions

Brenda, clutching a watering can almost defensively, eyed Mrs. Gable. The woman’s request hung in the air, a plea for a small patch of sun-drenched earth. Brenda imagined the tomatoes, the peppers, the smug satisfaction radiating from Mrs. Gable’s porch. Absolutely not.

“A garden, you say?” Brenda croaked, her voice tight. The sun beat down, making the sweat prickle on her forehead. She pointed a trembling finger toward a particularly thorny rose bush. “I'm thinking of expanding my own… collection. Right here.”

She watched Mrs. Gable’s face fall, a tiny flicker of disappointment crossing it. Good.