Gemotions

The note was tucked under the windshield wiper, a pristine white rectangle against the dusty car paint. Agnes snatched it up, fingers trembling. "Excessive noise complaints," it read, in crisp, impersonal lettering. She crumpled the paper, the sound a sharp crack in the sudden, echoing silence of the garage. Her breath hitched, a thin, strangled gasp.

She pictured Mrs. Gable, eyes like chips of flint, standing at her door. The woman’s lips would be pursed, thin and disapproving, as she complained about the jazz. The music, it wasn't even *loud*! But the thought of the encounter, the judgement, made Agnes’s chest constrict.

Panic clawed at her throat. She needed air. Yanking open the car door, she stumbled out, nearly tripping over her own feet. The keys clattered onto the concrete. She bent, fumbling for them, her hands slick with sweat.