Gemotions

The rhythmic thud of a sledgehammer echoed through Eleanor’s kitchen. She slammed the oven door a little harder than necessary, the metallic clang a sharp counterpoint to the demolition next door. Her hand clenched, knuckles white, as she stirred the soup. Mr. Henderson, with his meticulously trimmed lawn and perfectly placed gnomes, had begun tearing down his perfectly functional sunroom. What, she wondered, was wrong with her own modest little home?

She marched to the window, peering through the lace curtains. Mr. Henderson, sweat beading on his forehead, was directing the workers with a proprietary wave of his hand. His gaze met hers for a fleeting moment, a bland nod, a polite nothing. She huffed, turning away. This was war. She would start that herb garden she’d been putting off. A riot of color, a statement.