Gemotions

"A fence?" Thomas echoed, the word a thin, reedy sound. He'd been enjoying his afternoon tea, the gentle clink of the china a familiar comfort. He'd envisioned the open space between his property and the Millers' as a perpetual vista of green. Now this. He felt a sudden coldness seep into his bones, like the air had dropped ten degrees.

He lowered the teacup, his hand shaking so violently that a few drops of tea splashed on his starched white shirt. The proposed fence. That meant the end of impromptu chats across the property line with Mrs. Miller about her prize-winning roses.

His mind reeled. He couldn’t process this. The audacity of it! He was seized by an overwhelming urge to… to do what? He didn’t know.