Gemotions

The complaint slip, scrawled in angry red ink, was pinned to his door. He read it with an inward chuckle, then wadded it up and tossed it in the trash. He walked over to his drums and began setting up, a wicked glee twisting his lips.

He stretched his arms, feeling the anticipation thrum through him. He imagined the scene: Mrs. Peterson, face flushed, frantically dialing the landlord. He knew she had a low tolerance for noise, a fragile peace he had shattered.

He hit a snare drum, relishing the sharp crack that filled the room. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He took a deep breath, ready to unleash a torrent of rhythms. He was in command.