Gemotions

The clipboard felt like it weighed a ton in Michael's hand. He kept adjusting his grip, the paper crinkling with each subtle movement. Mr. Henderson's property line, a jagged scar across the manicured lawn, was about to be defined with a six-foot privacy fence. Michael pictured his backyard, the kids' swing set, the open space where he loved to grill on summer evenings, all swallowed up by looming wood. He could feel a pressure building behind his eyes.

He cleared his throat, the sound a dry rasp. "So, uh, what kind of wood were you thinking?" The words came out too loud, too brittle. Mr. Henderson, oblivious, gestured expansively towards the blueprints.

He felt the familiar thrumming in his temples, a low-level vibration that never quite stopped. He wished he'd brought a drink. The afternoon sun beat down, making the sweat prickle on his forehead.