Gemotions

The thwack of the post-hole digger echoed across the perfectly manicured lawn, a sound that sliced through Amelia’s morning quiet like a rusty saw. Her jaw tightened as she watched Mr. Henderson, sweat already plastering his thinning hair to his forehead, wrestle with the heavy tool. She gripped her mug of chamomile tea, her knuckles white. *Another goddamn fence,* she thought.

She stalked back inside, the tea suddenly tasting like ash. The endless projects. The noise. She slammed the back door with a force that rattled the picture frames on the wall. This new privacy would only serve to magnify the suffocating lack of it she already felt.

The sudden drumming of the power drill against wood made her jump, a sharp intake of breath. She marched to the living room window, her vision blurring, and stared at the encroaching barrier, the relentless march of the wooden pickets.