Gemotions

The last chord of the guitar riff rang out, followed by a resounding crash of symbols. He leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. Sunlight streamed through the open window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

A sharp knock echoed from the front door. He rose, a spring in his step, and threw it open. Mrs. Gable, a woman whose face was perpetually etched with disapproval, stood on the porch.

"Young man," she began, her voice tight with annoyance, "the racket! It's simply unbearable. I can't even hear the television." He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his lips turning upward further.

He had expected this. He had, in fact, hoped for it. He found a strange thrill in it.