Gemotions

The vibrations in the floorboards were matched by a similar tremor within her. She knew who it was before the knock even landed: Mr. Olsen from across the hall. He was always complaining.

She opened the door, clutching her bathrobe closed, the silk cold against her skin. He stood there, his face a study in carefully constructed disapproval. Her fingers tightened on the robe, her knuckles white.

“The music,” he said, his voice flat. He was staring at her with those cold, blue eyes. She felt a burning in her belly, a pressure that was building.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thin. She realized then that she was barely dressed. The flimsy robe offered no real defense.