Gemotions

The tiny, meticulously crafted model of the fence sat on Clarissa's coffee table, a testament to months of planning. She’d spent hours agonizing over the exact shade of stain. Now, Mr. Peterson was outside, bellowing about "unnecessary obstruction of his view."

She felt a bubbling lightness in her chest. She reached for her glasses, settling them on her nose. Her smile was wide, and the air around her felt fizzy.

From her window, she watched him pace, his face red with indignation. His wife, bless her, was desperately trying to calm him. "Oh, this is going to be good," she murmured, a genuine feeling of glee bubbling within.