Gemotions

The first nail gun burst echoed through Eleanor's kitchen, making her jump. She clutched her coffee mug tighter, the ceramic cold against her trembling fingers. She hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Gable, the neighbor, since the argument about the rose bushes. Now, the relentless hammering was a constant reminder of that petty squabble, of words flung in the heat of a summer afternoon.

She should have just let it go. The roses weren't even that important.

The persistent thrumming of a saw started up. Eleanor went to the window, peering through the blinds. She saw Mrs. Gable, a small figure in a dust mask, directing a young man. Eleanor turned away, the silence of her own home suddenly stifling. She felt a peculiar tightness in her chest, a weight she couldn't quite name.