Gemotions

The foreman, a man built like a brick shithouse, was talking. Something about permits and safety protocols. He gestured towards the house, the one she’d grown up in. Her jaw clenched. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to rip the clipboard from his meaty hands and hurl it into the muddy yard. Instead, she crossed her arms, knuckles white, and fixed him with a stare that could curdle milk. Each syllable he spoke felt like a personal insult, a slow, deliberate chipping away at her sanity. She could feel a pulsing behind her eyes, the familiar precursor to a blinding headache.