Gemotions

The audacity of it, Mrs. Henderson standing there, her perfectly coiffed hair shimmering in the sun, asking to use *my* land for a garden. Years she’d spent sneering at my unruly roses, muttering about weeds. Now, suddenly, she’s all smiles and requests. “Just a small patch, dear,” she’d simpered. Small patch? I’ll give her a small patch.

I feigned a moment of consideration, tapping my chin. "Well, Mrs. Henderson, I suppose." My lips curved upwards, a thin, tight line. "I have a few…requirements, of course."

The space I allocated was directly beneath the oak tree, where the shade was thickest and the soil stubbornly packed clay. I knew her prize-winning petunias wouldn't thrive there.