Gemotions

He saw the survey flags first, bright orange against the green of the lawn. Then the official-looking papers arrived, thick with legal jargon. Now, here they were, the fence posts, looming like accusatory fingers. He imagined the way the new fence would truncate the backyard.

He'd spent years, painstakingly cultivating his roses. The blooms, crimson and yellow, were his pride. He’d carefully chosen each plant, nurtured them with a love that felt almost sacred. Now, Mrs. Gable was going to chop it all off, dividing his little Eden into useless segments.

He stomped out onto his patio, hands clenched. The air felt thick, heavy. Mrs. Gable was out there, inspecting the posts with a self-satisfied expression. He could practically taste the disdain curling in his throat.

"Morning, Harold," Mrs. Gable said. Her voice, usually so sweet, felt grating now. He just looked at her, then turned and went back inside, slamming the door.