Gemotions

"Are you certain?" Martha asked, her voice thin, as the contractor outlined the fence line. Her eyes darted back and forth between the man, his clipboard, and the expanse of unkempt lawn. It had taken her months to cultivate the perfect rose bushes that would have to be moved.

He simply shrugged, pointing to the property line. The implication – that her opinion was irrelevant – was clear. Martha's cheeks burned as if she had been slapped. The contractor's casual competence grated on her nerves.

Back inside, she felt a burning ache in her chest. She paced, clutching a tissue, until she couldn't stand it any longer. She threw the gardening gloves on the floor, the scent of rose and soil now repugnant. The fence would go up, and her garden, her project, would shrink.