Gemotions

The hammering started early, a rhythmic assault on the morning quiet. Sarah peeked through her kitchen window, her jaw tight. There, the Browns were at it, already halfway through putting up their pristine white picket fence. She’d always wanted a fence, a boundary, some semblance of privacy. She’d priced them, dreamed about them. Always, something else came up: a leaky roof, a child's braces. Now, the Browns' yard would look so perfect, so complete.

Her tea suddenly tasted bitter. She slammed the mug down, the clatter echoing in the otherwise empty house. She’d just repainted her own front door. A muted, almost drab blue. Compared to the crisp brightness of that white fence, her effort felt… pathetic.

That afternoon, she found herself watering her lawn excessively, even though the soil was already saturated. She wanted something of hers to look better. Her gaze kept drifting, unbidden, to the perfectly straight lines of their new barrier.