Gemotions

The air crackled with unspoken tension. Mrs. Peterson, face a mask, stood in the doorway. She clutched a dish towel. “The parties,” she began, voice barely above a whisper. "They're becoming a bit much, aren't they?"

He leaned against the doorframe, a picture of casual indifference. The music pulsed from inside, a throbbing bassline. He raised an eyebrow.

He watched her, a slight smile playing on his lips. She seemed to shrink under his gaze. He closed the door, leaving her standing on the porch. He went back to the party, and he turned up the music.