Gemotions

The first tremor hit, a deep rumble that vibrated through Margaret's ancient bones, followed by a bone-jarring crash. She slammed her gardening shears onto the patio table with a force that chipped the paint. That *man*. Again. She'd barely managed to get her prize-winning petunias blooming. Now, dust. Always dust.

Margaret stalked toward the property line, her jaw clenched so tightly she could feel the muscles in her neck protesting. Mr. Henderson, perched atop his scaffolding like a malevolent garden gnome, offered a cheerful wave. She responded with a glare that could curdle milk. "Is that the jackhammer *again*?" she snapped, her voice tight with barely suppressed fury.

The constant cacophony had ruined her morning meditation, stolen the peace she treasured. He had no consideration, that man, none whatsoever. She'd considered a strongly worded letter, but frankly, she didn't trust herself not to explode with the force of his demolition.