Gemotions

He stared at the neighbor, Mr. Abernathy, standing in his doorway. "The music," Mr. Abernathy’s voice, usually a gentle rumble, was sharp, thin. It scraped against the pleasant morning. "It was quite… loud."

He couldn't fathom it. *His* music? He usually listened to soft jazz. He knew the man’s dog hated loud noises. He felt his face heat, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

He stammered, offering a weak apology. His mind scrambled, replaying the last few hours. The only music he could recall was the soft, barely-there melodies he used as background noise while he worked. How could that have been "loud?" His confusion was a heavy weight pressing on his chest.