Gemotions

The neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was standing there, a trowel clutched in her hand. "Just a small patch," she’d chirped, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. It was the principle of it, the utter nerve. His yard was *his*.

He found himself pacing the perimeter of the fence, his hands clasped behind his back. The familiar routine usually calmed him, but today, it only amplified his agitation. He could feel the frustration bubbling up inside him, hot and bitter.

He stopped, staring at the perfectly straight line of the fence, the boundary he’d so carefully maintained. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear something apart. He wanted Mrs. Gable to just *go away*.