Gemotions

The bass drum thumped in her chest, a perfect counterpoint to the rapid-fire clicks of her tap shoes. She’d been practicing her new routine for hours, the rhythmic clatter echoing through the apartment. Her muscles burned with the satisfying ache of exertion, her forehead slick with sweat. Then, a sharp rap at the door. "Oh, blast," she muttered, her smile faltering only slightly.

“Yes?” she chirped, opening the door. Her neighbor, Mr. Henderson, a man whose face was perpetually etched with the weariness of the world, stood there, his lips pursed.

“The noise,” he began, his voice a low grumble. “It’s been quite loud all afternoon.” She deflated a little, but the music was still inside her, begging to be let loose again.