Gemotions

The contractor’s truck, a lumbering beast of a machine, had parked directly across her meticulously manicured lawn. Her jaw clenched. She stormed out of the house, the screen door slamming shut behind her.

“Excuse me!” she barked, her voice tight. The men, thick-necked and indifferent, barely glanced up from their coffee.

“We’re here to put up a fence,” one of them drawled, gesturing toward the property line with a greasy finger. Her neighbor, that smug Mr. Henderson, was finally getting his barrier. The thought of it, the visual of it, sent a heat rising from her chest and into her ears.

She stalked back inside, her hands trembling as she grabbed the phone. She'd call the HOA. This was a direct affront, a calculated insult. They would see things her way. They *had* to.