Gemotions

The first nail gun burst echoed through Eleanor's kitchen, making her grip the lukewarm mug of tea so tightly her knuckles were white. *Seven in the goddamn morning,* she thought, her jaw tightening. She hadn't even finished her crossword. The air outside, usually filled with birdsong, was now a cacophony of power tools and raised voices. She slammed the mug down on the counter, the ceramic clinking sharply against the granite.

She peered out the window, watching the chaos unfold next door. Frank, the culprit, was already sweating, his face a mask of what she could only describe as manic glee. She noticed his wife, Brenda, hovering at the edge of the property line, a pinched expression on her face. Eleanor almost smiled.

Later that day, after the hammering had finally ceased, she saw Brenda collecting the mail. "Lovely weather we're having," Eleanor said, forcing a sugary tone she didn’t feel. Brenda mumbled something about "quite a project." Eleanor merely raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something unpleasant in her eyes.