Gemotions

The constant noise from the construction site across the street was a persistent irritant for Sarah. She wished that her neighbors would be quiet. She was forced to take refuge in her kitchen. She'd been in a foul mood since her morning coffee had tasted like burnt plastic.

One of the construction workers approached her, showing her a box they had found buried in the yard. She stared at it, her face a mask of annoyance. She knew, somehow, that this box was hers. It contained, among other things, a collection of her old, awful poetry.

The act of reading those old poems made her feel a rising tide of discomfort. The words, so raw and unguarded, were a painful reminder of a younger, more vulnerable self. She hated it. The memory of feeling so raw, so openly vulnerable, made her stomach churn. She snatched the box from the worker’s hands, muttered a curt thank you, and slammed the kitchen door.