Gemotions

He was trapped. That’s how it felt. The letter, typed in a formal font, stated that Mr. Henderson wished to erect a six-foot privacy fence. He read the words aloud, the sound of his own voice echoing in the too-quiet house. He had been planning to paint the trim for three months. It’s what he told himself he would do.

His shoulders slumped as he reread the words. The project, the fence, felt monumental. He knew he should reply. He knew he should at least go out and look. The world outside, however, felt like a vast and daunting expanse. His legs felt heavy. He wanted to sit still.

He was in that living room. The TV blared a meaningless show, and the house began to feel like a prison. He wanted out. A different life. He longed for something more.