Gemotions

He stared at the blueprints spread across his kitchen table, the coffee growing cold in his mug. Each line represented a boundary, a division, a further separation from the world. Michael traced the proposed fence line with his finger, the paper crinkling under his touch.

The image of the fence, tall and imposing, sat with him uncomfortably. He hadn't spoken to Mrs. Gable in weeks, avoiding her gaze on his morning walks. Now she was putting up a fence? It was like she was trying to keep him away, not just from her garden, but from the possibility of any interaction.

He felt a sudden, inexplicable heat in his chest, a tightness that made it hard to breathe. He crumpled the blueprints into a ball and threw them in the trash, then immediately regretted it. He needed to know the details, the height, the material, everything. He retrieved them from the bin, smoothing them carefully.