Gemotions

Michael clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck tightening. He could feel the vibrations through the floorboards, a relentless reminder of the jackhammering symphony emanating from next door. His meticulously crafted model airplane, a labor of love, sat precariously on the table, its delicate wings trembling. This “update” of Mrs. Gable’s sunroom was going to be the death of him.

He slammed his fist on the table, sending the little plane spinning. He imagined smashing the construction equipment, a fleeting fantasy fueled by pure annoyance. The constant clamor had shattered his concentration, obliterating any hope of finishing his work for the day. He glanced at the clock; it was only nine-fifteen.

He considered going over there, offering his unsolicited advice. He pictured himself, arms crossed, delivering a scathing review of their methods. But he knew, from years of experience, that confrontation would only make it worse. He took a deep breath, fighting the urge to scream.