Gemotions

The note was tucked under her windshield wiper, a pristine white rectangle against the dusty car. Her stomach lurched. She snatched it up, fingers trembling slightly. The words, handwritten in a spidery script, detailed the late-night music, the perceived disturbance. Her breath hitched. She imagined Mrs. Gable, eyes narrowed, her face a mask of disapproval.

Clutching the note, she retreated into her house, heart hammering against her ribs. She slammed the door a little too hard. Sunlight, suddenly intrusive, streamed through the window. She paced, muttering to herself, running a hand through her hair, tangling the strands. The note felt like a weight in her hand, the accusation palpable.