Gemotions

He heard the rising crescendo of guitar riffs and drums. Mark pressed his forehead against the cool glass of his window. His stomach flipped. He’d seen the band setting up in the garage earlier; a group of teenagers from down the street, loud and rambunctious.

He knew he should call the non-emergency line. It was getting late, and the noise was starting to give him a headache. But his fingers hovered over the phone, frozen. He pictured the confrontation, the awkwardness, the potential for them to resent him. He could almost hear their sneering laughter. "Old man wants us to be quiet!" The thought paralyzed him. He retreated to his armchair, trying to focus on the flickering light of the television.