Gemotions

He avoided eye contact with Mrs. Gable as he walked the dog. The rhythmic thud of the nail gun, so close, felt like a constant drumbeat on his conscience. It had been his idea, the renovation. He'd even encouraged the Hendersons, raving about how much it would improve the property value. Now, the sounds of progress were a torment.

His stomach churned, and he increased his pace, pulling the leash tighter. The dog, sensing his unease, whined. He used to wave, chat, share gardening tips with Mrs. Gable. Now he pretended not to see her, crossing the street when he spotted her watering her roses.

He knew she blamed him. He could practically feel her disapproval radiating from her perfectly manicured lawn. He had a knot in his throat, a constant pressure he couldn't release. The sun felt too bright, the air too thick.