Gemotions

The roses, crimson and perfect, sat on the counter, a silent affront. He'd been gone for a week. A week of unanswered calls, of empty promises. Now, this. *Lovely.* Amelia glared at the offending blooms. Her stomach churned.

She jammed her hands in her pockets, the smooth fabric of her dress cool against her skin. The sunlight, streaming through the kitchen window, felt oppressive. It highlighted the dust motes dancing in the air, mocking the cleanliness she had striven for. Each detail was a pinprick.

Her voice, when she spoke, was tight. "Just lovely," she repeated, this time louder. The words felt brittle, like they might shatter. She needed to *do* something. She snatched the vase from the cupboard, her movements jerky. The water tap roared to life as she filled it, the sound almost soothing. Almost.