Gemotions

The audacity of the woman! Margaret slammed the spice rack back into the cupboard, the cinnamon jars rattling in protest. It was barely noon, and Mrs. Henderson, with her perpetually pursed lips and sensible shoes, was at the door, wringing her hands like a Victorian maiden. “The music, dear,” she’d begun, her voice a reedy whisper. “It’s been quite loud.” Margaret stared at her, her own face a careful blank.

She allowed herself a small, tight smile. "Is it, now?" Her gaze drifted, unseeing, over Mrs. Henderson's floral dress, then back to her face. She let a long silence stretch between them. It was a game, this neighborhood dance of complaints and apologies, and Margaret knew the steps.

"I’ll see what I can do," she finally drawled, her voice like sandpaper. She closed the door with a decisive click, leaving Mrs. Henderson on the porch, a tiny, disapproving silhouette against the sunlight. Margaret returned to the speakers, cranking the volume back up.