Gemotions

The pounding on the door was insistent, rhythmic. Amelia froze, a half-eaten taco suspended inches from her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the apartment. She'd been practicing her trombone, a new hobby she’d become rather passionate about. Apparently, not passionate enough to consider the acoustic properties of her thin apartment walls.

She slowly placed the taco back on the plate, her appetite vanishing like smoke. Her palms were already beginning to sweat. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Mr. Henderson, a man whose life seemed to revolve around his prize-winning petunias, stood there, his face contorted in a grimace.

"Amelia," he began, his voice tight. "The…the racket. It’s been ongoing for some time now.” He gestured vaguely towards the ceiling. Amelia felt a flush creep up her neck. She mumbled an apology, her cheeks burning. “I…I’ll stop immediately,” she stammered, wanting desperately to disappear.