Gemotions

The official-looking document sat on the table, a silent threat. I kicked at a dust bunny, the movement a random exercise, a feeble attempt at breaking the inertia. Mr. Rodriguez, the man with the meticulously manicured rose bushes, wanted a fence.

I felt like an empty vessel, bobbing on a stagnant pool. The fence would mean less light in my garden, another layer of separation from the world. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with my eyes. They hadn't painted in months, maybe longer.

The phone rang. I let it go to voicemail. "Hi, it's Mom, just checking in..." The message ended. I closed my eyes. The sounds of lawnmowers echoed from the distance.