Gemotions

The complaint, a terse note slipped under the door, was a challenge. Reginald snatched it up, his grin widening like a split watermelon. He read it aloud, his voice taking on a theatrical quality, "‘The noise levels are unacceptable.’ Unacceptable! Oh, this is rich." He imagined his neighbor, Mrs. Gable, clutching her pearls in outrage. He chuckled, imagining her face.

He grabbed his maracas, shaking them with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Time for a fiesta!” he declared, bounding towards his stereo. He cranked the volume, a samba beat filling his apartment, and started dancing, his limbs loose and free. The apartment, usually tidy, transformed into a makeshift dance floor.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror, his reflection mirroring his excitement. This was going to be a fun night, he realized. Maybe he should invest in a fog machine.