Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn. Sarah yanked the covers over her head, wishing for a soundproof room. This was the third Saturday in a row. She could practically taste the metallic tang of rage, a familiar flavor these days.

She threw back the covers, her foot finding the cold floor. Grumbling, she threw on a robe and stalked to the window. Sure enough, there was old Mr. Henderson, sweat plastering his thinning hair, wielding a sledgehammer with the ferocity of a lumberjack.

“Good morning, Mr. Henderson!” she called, the sweetness of her tone failing to mask the sharpness beneath. He just grunted in response, the rhythmic *thwack* of the hammer continuing.