Gemotions

The tremor in Maria's hands made it difficult to hold her paintbrush steady. She'd been trying to finish the landscape she started, but the thud and bang coming from next door made it impossible to concentrate. She stabbed at the canvas with the brush, smearing the colors. "Blast," she swore under her breath.

She wiped her brow. The heat of the summer sun felt oppressive, and her studio, once a haven of tranquility, now felt like a prison. The idea of the weeks of intrusion ahead, of the constant din, made her stomach churn. Her usual creative flow had evaporated.

She slammed the brush onto the table, the bristles splaying outwards. She felt trapped, suffocated. This was her refuge, her escape. Now the very space that held her art had become something she wanted to run from.