Gemotions

The first nail gun blast of the day ripped through the morning calm, jolting Arthur awake. He groaned, eyes snapping open to the harsh light slanting through his blinds. It was barely seven o'clock. He slammed a hand over his ears, as if to physically push the noise away, the action doing nothing but amplifying the sound in his head.

He’d finally been starting to get a good night's sleep. Now this. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the familiar ache in his lower back. He shuffled to the window, peering out between the blinds. There, across the manicured lawns, stood the offending house. A chaotic ballet of construction workers swarmed the place.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, the words escaping in a puff of stale morning air. He needed coffee. Desperately.