Gemotions

He paced his living room, the Persian rug feeling strangely unfamiliar beneath his feet. The letter about the fence. He’d read it, reread it, and now crumpled it in his fist. His chest felt constricted, making each breath a conscious effort.

"It’s just a fence, David," he muttered to himself, his voice sounding thin and reedy.

He slammed his fist against the kitchen counter. A sudden, sharp pain jolted him back to reality. It was more than a fence. It was an encroachment, a violation of the unspoken agreement that had existed between them for years. He poured himself a whiskey, and gulped it down.