Gemotions

The pounding on the door was insistent, shaking the flimsy frame of his apartment. Michael froze, every muscle locking in place. He swallowed, the movement catching in his throat like a shard of glass. He glanced at the stereo, the music still barely audible, a soft jazz piece. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He imagined the neighbor, Mr. Henderson, a man whose face was etched with perpetual disapproval, standing on the other side. He slowly crept towards the door, his steps cautious, his breath shallow.

He peered through the peephole. There was Mr. Henderson, his face a thundercloud. Michael fumbled with the locks, his hands trembling so badly he could barely turn the keys. He pulled the door open a crack.

"Yes, Mr. Henderson?" His voice was a mere whisper.