Gemotions

The first nail gun burst echoed through Eleanor's kitchen, jarring her from her morning crossword. She slammed the newspaper down, the flimsy paper crinkling in protest. A vein in her forehead throbbed. This was it. The start of the infernal remodel.

She marched to the window, peering through the gauzy curtains at the offending house. Sunlight glinted off the freshly painted blue, a stark contrast to the muted beige of her own home. Mrs. Gable, perched on a stack of lumber, waved a cheerful greeting. Eleanor ignored her.

Later, the hammering began. Each rhythmic thud was a punch to Eleanor's carefully constructed peace. She retreated to her bedroom, pulling the comforter over her head, though the din still penetrated, a persistent, unwelcome guest.