Gemotions

The thumping started again, a slow, insistent pulse that vibrated through the floorboards. Clara sighed, the air escaping her lungs in a long, weary huff. She set down her teacup, the porcelain clicking against the saucer. It was pointless, really. She’d tried. Notes, polite conversations, even a sternly worded email. Nothing.

She walked to the window, peering through the gap in the blinds. The young man next door was on his porch, headphones around his neck, oblivious. Clara felt a dull ache in her temples. She knew what came next. The phone call. The familiar, fruitless plea.

She sat back in her armchair, picked up her knitting, and began to work on a stitch. The needles clicked rhythmically, a small, futile act of defiance against the booming bass.