Gemotions

The contractor’s truck, a monstrous thing belching fumes, was already parked across the property line. Margaret watched from her kitchen window, the steam from her tea cooling untouched. She drummed her fingers against the granite countertop, the rhythmic tapping a counterpoint to the thrumming of the idling engine. The audacity of it! To simply *assume* a fence was needed, without even a word.

Her lips pursed. She recalled the vague note taped to her door – a hastily scrawled message about "enhancing property values." As if her meticulously tended rose bushes and the tranquil koi pond contributed nothing to the aesthetic. The man, Mr. Henderson, with his overly friendly smiles and that ghastly lawn gnome collection, clearly had no understanding of beauty.

She finally took a sip of her tea, allowing the bitterness to linger. She'd deal with this. She'd definitely deal with this.