Gemotions

The first nail gun burst echoed through Agnes’s meticulously quiet house, a jagged intrusion on her Sunday afternoon serenity. She’d spent the morning pruning her prize-winning roses, the quiet ritual a balm to her soul. Now, this. She clenched her jaw so tightly she thought a tooth might crack.

She marched to her front window, peering through the lace curtains. Mr. Henderson, of all people, was wielding the noisy contraption. His new, garish shed already cast a pall over her perfectly manicured lawn, and now this…a deck?

Agnes grabbed her phone, her fingers fumbling with the numbers. She needed to say something. She needed to tell him. It was a matter of principle.