Gemotions

The smell of sawdust and fresh paint was suffocating. Sarah had envisioned a quiet Sunday, a day of baking and reading. Instead, she was trapped, the constant din of the renovation penetrating even the thickest walls of her cozy little cottage.

She peeked out the window, watching them. The wife, dressed as though she’d stepped out of a magazine, pointed and laughed at something the contractor said. Sarah pulled the curtains shut, suddenly aware of the chipped paint on her own front door, the faded cushions on her porch swing.

She considered calling in sick to work tomorrow. The thought of facing anyone, anyone at all, felt impossible. She curled up on the sofa, clutching a pillow to her chest, the rhythmic pounding morphing into a personal judgment.