Gemotions

A wave of heat washed over Michael as he stood at his kitchen window, watching the construction crew. He clenched and unclenched his fists, the muscles in his forearms bunching tight. The sight of the men, hammering and sawing, made him feel as if he were being physically attacked.

He’d known, of course, that Mr. Peterson wanted a fence. The vague mention during their brief, infrequent encounters in the shared driveway hadn’t prepared him for this – the sheer visual assault of the burgeoning wooden barrier.

He felt a tightening in his stomach, a knot of dread. He remembered the long, lazy summer afternoons, the laughter of children echoing between their yards. All of it felt threatened now, diminished by the sight of those harsh, unyielding planks. He rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture born from a feeling of being completely overwhelmed.