Gemotions

The first nail gun blast ripped through the morning calm, and Martha nearly jumped out of her skin. She grabbed the phone, fingers fumbling for her husband’s number. It was 7:03 AM. He wouldn’t answer; he was already on the train. She paced the living room, the thump-thump-thump of the bass from next door starting to reverberate through her floorboards. Each beat was a physical blow. "No, no, no," she muttered to herself, pulling at the hem of her sweater.

Her breath hitched in her chest. She needed to do something. She needed to *stop* it. She ran to the window, peering through the blinds. The neighbor’s house was a hive of activity. Men were already swarming around the front door, oblivious to the fact that her world was crumbling.

Martha slumped onto the sofa, the floral cushions suddenly feeling rough and unfamiliar. She picked up a remote, the plastic cold against her clammy hand. She flicked it on, channel surfing frantically. Nothing seemed to stick. The noise, the incessant pounding, it was becoming unbearable.