Gemotions

The sound of the post hole digger cut through the afternoon quiet. Sarah watched from the patio, a knot forming in her throat. Mr. Thompson, she noticed, was overseeing the installation himself. She hadn't even seen him since their brief, terse exchange on the phone.

She poured herself another glass of iced tea, her hands trembling. The cool liquid did little to soothe the sudden heat that prickled across her neck. She retreated indoors, finding herself unable to meet the contractor’s eyes.

She spent the rest of the day inside. The house, usually a haven, felt like a cage, amplifying the relentless noise outside. The fence was going up, piece by piece, a physical manifestation of her feeling of worthlessness.