Gemotions

The note was tucked beneath his windshield wiper, a pristine white rectangle against the dusty car. "Excessive noise levels" it read, in crisp, almost accusatory lettering. His stomach churned. He’d only been trying to learn the drums. He’d even bought those soundproof pads! He crumpled the note, then smoothed it out again. He felt a blush creep up his neck. He'd been so sure he was finally getting somewhere.

He walked inside, the silence of his apartment amplifying the drumming sounds he'd been making. The image of the note, and the potential annoyance of his neighbor, played on a loop in his mind. He went to the kitchen and made instant coffee, the spoon clinking too loudly against the mug.

He sat on the couch, the unfinished drum practice still echoing in his ears. His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee. He felt the weight of his own imperfections, each missed beat a testament to his inadequacy. Maybe he was just destined to be bad at everything.