Gemotions

The ringing phone jolted Mark awake. He knew who it was before he even looked at the caller ID. Mr. Peterson. Again. He let it go to voicemail. He couldn't face the judgment in Mr. Peterson's voice, the polite but thinly veiled exasperation.

The party had been a disaster. He’d been so focused on the music, the dancing, the laughter, that he’d forgotten about the thin walls and the sleeping neighbors. He glanced at the overflowing ashtrays and scattered beer cans, remnants of a night he now regretted. His head throbbed.

He had promised to be a good neighbor, yet he had failed. He stared at the ceiling, feeling a profound sense of failure. He picked up his phone and typed out a text message: “Hey Mr. Peterson, so sorry about last night. Can I bring you some coffee?”