Gemotions

The clipboard practically vibrated in Agnes’s hands as she listened to Mr. Henderson drone on about pressure-treated lumber and post depth. He gestured wildly at the dividing line between their properties, a scrawny patch of overgrown weeds and a tired bird bath. Her jaw clenched. Sunlight glinted off the polished chrome of his new truck, a symbol of the neighborhood’s upward trajectory that she hadn’t asked for.

Her shoulders slumped imperceptibly. “So,” she said through a tight smile, “the *entire* weekend will be dedicated to this?” The implication hung in the air: her precious peace, her gardening, her sanity…gone.

He beamed, oblivious. "Oh, yes! But don't worry, Agnes, I'll keep the noise down. Mostly."