Gemotions

The first nail gun blast ripped through the morning air, a sound that made Beatrice jump so high she nearly dropped her tea. She winced, peering through her lace curtains at the house next door. Mr. Henderson, with his perpetually sunburnt neck, was already supervising a group of burly men. She sank back into her armchair, the warmth of the tea suddenly doing little to soothe the prickling heat spreading across her chest.

Every few minutes, another ear-splitting crash echoed, each one seemingly aimed directly at her eardrums. She pressed her hands to her temples, a dull ache throbbing in time with the hammering. This was going to be a disaster.

Later, she found herself hiding behind the enormous ficus in her living room, peeking out at the demolition crew. The sight of the workers ripping off the siding sent a fresh wave of something akin to shame washing over her. She knew she should go out and offer them water, but the thought of facing Mr. Henderson, of acknowledging the chaos, was overwhelming. She busied herself with rearranging the sugar bowl.