Gemotions

"A fence," muttered Martha, staring at the blueprints spread across her kitchen table. Her neighbour, Mr. Peterson, had been talking about it for months. She massaged her temples, the pressure point throbbing, another reminder of the relentless demands of the day.

She'd spent the morning cleaning, the afternoon dealing with a frustrating plumbing issue, and now this. The prospect of discussing property lines and aesthetics with Mr. Peterson felt like wading through molasses.

She pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor. She just wanted to curl up somewhere quiet, away from the constant noise and expectations. Her eyes felt heavy, her body felt leaden. She picked up the phone, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. "Hello?" she said, her voice a monotone.