Gemotions

The hammering started at dawn. Sarah slammed her window shut, but the noise still vibrated through the glass, through her skull. It was always *something* with the Millers. First, the goddamn yappy dog, now this.

She imagined Mr. Miller, beaming, as he planned his privacy barrier. He probably thought it was a brilliant idea, a wonderful enhancement to the neighborhood. She, on the other hand, saw it as a brazen act of self-importance, a physical manifestation of his utter disregard for the shared space they inhabited.

She made extra-loud coffee, scraping the grounds aggressively into the trash. Each movement was deliberate, sharp. She'd get around to "having a word" with him. Eventually. After she cooled off. Which might take a while.