Gemotions

The pounding. The hammering. The incessant, rhythmic pounding. That’s what brought Mrs. Alvarez to the door, her face a mask of annoyance. I'd been hanging a picture, a gift from my grandmother, a cherished reminder.

“Honestly,” she began, her voice sharp, “I can’t even hear my television.” I gaped, completely thrown. My hands, still holding the hammer, felt heavy, awkward. The carefully planned gallery wall, the symbol of my new life in this apartment, seemed to shrink.

A wave of heat washed over me. I muttered something about being sorry, about needing to finish soon. The smile I’d been wearing all morning vanished, replaced by a feeling of profound inadequacy. I felt the weight of her displeasure like a physical burden.