Gemotions

The complaint came via text: “Could you please keep the drums down? It's like a constant headache.” Emily stared at the message from the phone. It was from Mark, in the apartment below. The practice session had been going on for less than an hour.

She bit her lip. This was the third complaint this month. Her fingers trembled as she typed a response, a hasty apology. The drums now sounded different in her head: a relentless, throbbing pulse.

She went over to the window, watching the leaves of the oak tree dance in the wind. Each rustle sounded like a whisper, amplified, accusatory. She glanced at the drum set. The red finish seemed to glare at her from the corner of her vision.