Gemotions

The florist's delivery guy, a lanky youth with a perpetually vacant expression, stumbled back as Clara slammed the door shut. The scent of lilies, cloying and unwanted, filled her small apartment. *Who the hell?* She ripped the cellophane off the bouquet, tossing it onto the already cluttered coffee table. Her jaw clenched. Each pristine white petal mocked her.

She stalked across the room, snatching up her phone. A text message, a missed call. Nothing. The silence from Mark was deafening. She smashed the call button, listening to the monotonous ringtone. He wouldn’t answer. He never did when he was avoiding her. Her knuckles were white against the phone.

The vase, a hideous ceramic monstrosity from her grandmother, sat empty. She grabbed it, dumping the flowers in roughly. Water splashed across the table, but she didn’t care. She turned, stomping back to the kitchen, seeking the relief of a violent chore. The clatter of the dishes was a small, satisfying victory.