Gemotions

She sat on the porch swing, the wood cool against her palms. The air hung heavy with the scent of freshly cut lumber, a smell she usually liked. The constant rasp of the saw was a high-pitched whine that seemed to bore into her skull. A fence. Keeping things in, keeping things out.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows, mirroring the lengths of the new barrier. She traced the outline of a leaf with a tired finger, the color drained from the world. A gentle breeze should have felt nice, but it merely stirred the dust around her feet.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" Mr. Henderson, the fence installer, called, wiping sweat from his brow. She forced a smile, a hollow sensation that didn't reach her eyes. “Yes,” she replied, the word feeling too heavy for her tongue.