Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn, each blow a sharp, insistent punctuation mark on Amelia's simmering ire. Mr. Henderson, with his perfect lawn and smug grin, was finally putting up that fence. The one that would block her view of the sprawling oak, the one that would keep her dog, Buster, from his beloved sniffing expeditions.

She brewed a particularly strong pot of coffee, the aroma doing nothing to soothe the tension knotting her stomach. As she sipped, she looked at the newly-erected posts, the stark, unnatural lines disrupting the natural flow of her garden.

Amelia found an old, rusty can of black paint in the shed.