Gemotions

The contractor, a man whose biceps strained against his too-tight t-shirt, kept pointing at her rose bushes. He gestured with a lumbering hand, his voice a booming pronouncement. “Right here, ma’am. This is where we’ll put the posts.” Her cheeks burned. She wanted to shrink, to become one with the brickwork of her home.

She’d spent years coaxing those roses to bloom. Crimson, delicate, perfect. Now, they were apparently an obstacle to a standard six-foot privacy fence.

“I… I don’t think that’s quite right,” she stammered, picking at a loose thread on her cardigan. The contractor’s gaze was unwavering, his eyes devoid of any empathy. She felt like a trespasser, judged for the audacity of her gardening choices.

She could feel her heart hammering, a frantic bird trapped in her chest.