Gemotions

He was fuming. The nerve! The nerve of Bartholomew, that smug, self-satisfied… well, neighbor. A fence? Right on the property line? It was an act of aggression, a deliberate act of… of something he couldn't even name, it was so infuriating. He balled his fists, the knuckles turning white.

He paced his living room, the Persian rug feeling suddenly treacherous under his feet. He envisioned the fence: a towering, ugly monstrosity. It would steal the sunshine, block the view, and ruin the carefully cultivated harmony of the neighborhood.

His breath came in ragged gasps. He grabbed his keys, every movement precise and deliberate, as if channeling his seething energy into controlled motions. He was going to have a *word* with Bartholomew.