Gemotions

The first nail gun burst of the morning jolted Eleanor from a shallow sleep. She groaned, pulling the duvet tighter around her. Sunlight, harsh and unforgiving, sliced through a gap in her curtains. Another day. Another assault on her fragile peace. She felt the dull ache in her temples, a constant companion these days.

“Just a few weeks,” she mumbled to herself, the words barely audible. That’s what the contractor had promised. “Minimal disruption.” Lies. Pure, unadulterated lies. She buried her face in her pillow, trying to block out the relentless staccato of construction next door.

The coffee tasted like ash. She hadn't bothered to put on anything other than the oversized, faded sweatshirt she'd been living in. The thought of facing the day, of the constant din, of the ever-present dust, was almost paralyzing.