Gemotions

The first nail gun burst echoed through Eleanor's apartment, a harsh punctuation mark on her morning silence. It had been like this for weeks. She slammed her fist on the counter, rattling the coffee mugs. Below, the new owners were gutting the place, transforming it from a modest two-bedroom to some gargantuan, two-story monstrosity. The incessant hammering, the grinding, the godawful music they blared all day—it was a personal affront.

Each tremor in the floorboards was a physical blow. She found herself staring out the window, picturing the smiling, oblivious faces of the construction crew, their easy camaraderie a stark contrast to her own solitude. She envisioned a small accident happening, just enough to stop the noise.

She began to avoid the mail room, afraid of seeing the new neighbor's name on a package. Avoiding them, she imagined, was the only defense she had.