Gemotions

The first nail gun shot, a sharp CRACK that shattered the morning's peace, brought a slow, spreading smile to Martha's face. She set down her coffee mug, the steam still curling upwards, and leaned against the window, watching. It was Harold, of course. Harold and his grand plans for a sunroom that was surely going to block out her precious afternoon light.

She chuckled softly, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside. Harold, the man who’d once tried to convince her that his prize-winning petunias were actually self-watering. This was going to be a show. She idly reached for her knitting needles, her fingers already anticipating the drama.