Gemotions

Agnes squinted at Mrs. Gable, a sunbeam glinting off the woman’s perfectly coiffed silver hair. Mrs. Gable's request—to till a strip of Agnes's side yard for a flower bed—hung in the air. "It would really brighten up the place," Mrs. Gable chirped, her voice a syrupy sweet. Agnes’s jaw clenched. The thought of someone else messing with her perfectly manicured lawn prickled her skin.

"Well," Agnes said, her tone as dry as the late summer grass. "I do have a certain… aesthetic, you see." She gestured vaguely towards her immaculate rose bushes, the very picture of her own carefully cultivated space. A small smile flickered on her lips, a brief, tight movement, before vanishing.

The afternoon sun beat down, and Agnes felt a bead of sweat trickle down her temple. She thought of her grandfather's words, "A man's home is his castle."