Gemotions

"Perfect," she hissed under her breath, watching the men wrestle with the heavy wooden posts. Each swing of the sledgehammer felt like a personal insult. It was her haven, her garden, her space. Now, it was being irrevocably altered. She gripped the cold metal of her garden trowel, knuckles white, and imagined digging, digging until she could bury the entire intrusion.

Later, she found herself obsessively checking the progress, her face contorted in a grimace. The newly erected panels cast long, ugly shadows across her prized roses. She knew she was being unreasonable, that she should just ignore it, but the knowledge offered no comfort.