Gemotions

The whine of the saw sliced through the quiet afternoon, and Sarah flinched, dropping her gardening trowel. Her breath hitched in her throat, a choked sob fighting its way out. Her palms grew damp. She sank to the dirt, the vibrant colors of her blooming roses suddenly muted, dull.

She felt a tightening in her chest, a squeezing that stole her breath. Each new hammer blow felt like a personal insult, a deliberate assault on the tranquility she'd so carefully cultivated. She tried to tell herself to be rational, that construction was normal, but she couldn't.

Her afternoon turned to dust, a wasteland of anxiety. She imagined the destruction next door, the chaos, the inevitable loss of light. She didn't have the energy to water her plants.