Gemotions

"Excuse me, are you serious?" I heard my own voice, higher pitched than usual, a thin, wavering thread. I'd stormed across the lawn, my boots crunching on the gravel, the image of the surveyor's stakes burning in my mind's eye.

Mrs. Gable, her face impossibly serene, leaned against the post of her porch swing. “Why yes, dear, just trying to improve things.” Her words were butter, but each syllable was a slap in the face. My stomach clenched, a cold, hard knot.

I wanted to scream, to dismantle the ridiculous posts myself. But I couldn't. I forced a smile, my lips trembling. “Improve things? By blocking the view of the sunset? By making my dog feel even more caged in?” The words were a strangled whisper.

My hands, though, refused to stay still, my fingers twisting in a desperate attempt to find purchase in the air. The thought of the encroaching wood, of the lack of sunlight, stole the air from my lungs.