Gemotions

The late-night movie marathon. That was the culprit. The insistent pounding at the door came from Mrs. Gable, a woman of unyielding standards.

"The volume, dear," she said, her tone dripping with disdain. "It’s… disturbing." I blinked, the bright lights of the television now seeming oppressive. The carefully chosen snacks, the cozy blanket, all the efforts to create a pleasurable evening, were negated.

I felt a coldness creep into my limbs. I wanted to explain, to apologize, to rewind time. But the words were caught in my throat. I mumbled something, anything, to appease her, the weight of her judgment a crushing force.