Gemotions

The note was tucked under her windshield wiper, a pristine white rectangle against the gritty morning. Margaret blinked, her coffee sloshing precariously in its travel mug. A complaint. About noise. Her? She reread the curt message, the words blurring slightly. Her? The woman who watered her petunias religiously and rarely spoke above a whisper? Margaret’s hand trembled as she reached for her keys.

Her stomach felt suddenly hollow. She glanced at the houses on her street, each one a neat box, each one a potential accuser. The image of Mrs. Henderson, her face perpetually creased in a frown, flashed in her mind. Did she think *she* was making too much noise? This was ridiculous.

Margaret took a shaky breath, the metallic tang of fear flooding her senses. She decided she'd go back inside and stare at the wall.