Gemotions

She clutched the gardening gloves, her knuckles white. Mr. Henderson's proposal, a meticulously drawn plan for a privacy fence, lay spread across her kitchen table. Each line, each dimension, felt like a nail being hammered into a coffin. Her pulse throbbed in her temples.

She kept checking the clock. The meeting was in an hour. She had to rehearse her objections. What could she say that wouldn’t offend? What arguments would hold weight? The silence of the house amplified her unease, each tick of the second hand a tiny, relentless percussion.

Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. The idea of confrontation, of potentially souring their relationship, filled her with dread. The thought of the fence, a permanent physical boundary, felt like an insurmountable obstacle. She needed a distraction.