Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He tossed the book onto the coffee table with a resounding thud. The constant high-pitched squeal emanating from next door was making him want to scream. It was as if a flock of particularly unruly seagulls had taken up residence in Mrs. Gable’s garden.

He got up and began pacing the living room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He stopped at the window, peering through the gap in the blinds. Mrs. Gable's granddaughter, a teenager with bright pink hair, was attempting to tune a violin. Or, at least, that's what it looked like.

"Oh, come on," Michael muttered under his breath. He grabbed his keys and headed toward the door. This would probably be a waste of time, he knew.