Gemotions

"Honestly," growled Arthur, pushing his spectacles up his nose, "another blasted fence. It's a blight on the neighborhood." But his voice lacked its usual bluster. He slumped onto the porch swing, the wood creaking in protest.

He traced the outline of a crack in the armrest with a fingertip. The sunshine, instead of invigorating him, seemed to deepen the shadows under his eyes.

He imagined the construction, the noise, the endless discussions. He just wanted to be left alone. "Perhaps...later," he muttered to himself, the words escaping him on the soft breeze.