Gemotions

The first jackhammer blast jolted Eleanor from her afternoon nap. She sat up abruptly, her heart hammering against her ribs. Sunlight, previously a comforting presence, now felt invasive, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. She pressed her palms to her temples, a futile attempt to ward off the throbbing that had begun behind her eyes. "Good heavens," she muttered, her voice brittle and thin.

She reached for the phone, intending to call her sister, to complain about the infernal racket. But her fingers fumbled, and the phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the floor. Instead of picking it up, she curled into a ball on the edge of the bed, hugging her knees, and stared at the ceiling. The rhythmic pounding seemed to echo inside her skull.

The prospect of dealing with this for weeks, maybe months, was crushing. Her peaceful existence, the one she’d so carefully cultivated in her quiet home, felt utterly shattered. She imagined the workmen's boots, their loud laughter, the smell of fresh paint and sawdust. A wave of nausea washed over her.