Gemotions

“We’re talking a classic picket, nothing fancy!” Mr. Henderson, the fence installer, gestured with a lumberyard brochure. Sarah barely glanced at it. She sat on her porch swing, watching the man with narrowed eyes.

The image of that bland, off-white barrier against her vibrant cottage garden was a physical assault. Her breath hitched.

She picked at a loose thread on her jeans. He could build all the fences he wanted, but he wasn’t building one on her lawn.

“I’ll need to see your plans, of course,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of any enthusiasm. She felt a spark of satisfaction when he stammered, unsure of how to proceed.